


need your grace

by juliusschmidt



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Camboy Louis, Closeted Character, Famous Harry, First Time, Light Un-negotiated BDSM, M/M, Non-Famous Louis, Post-The X Factor Era, Sex Work, The X Factor Era, famous/non famous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-21 00:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12444876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliusschmidt/pseuds/juliusschmidt
Summary: “I can’t wait to kiss you,” he says, softly. “With, like, tongue.”Louis closes his eyes. This afternoon on the train in, he would never have guessed that at the end of the night he’d have Harry Styles-the Harry Styles- beside him, begging to be kissed. With tongue. Jesus Christ.





	need your grace

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this during NaNo November 2014 and since that time I've grown and changed as a writer. This isn't to debase the work, but just to say that were I to write this story in 2017, it would be very different. 
> 
> It is not finished. It will never be finished. I'm just so glad to get this monster out of my WIPs folder. 
> 
> Britpicked by the amazing Sam. All mistakes are mine! 
> 
> Title from "Chasing Cars." Please watch this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=swTNr2d5RQ8
> 
> Warning: this fic does not deal with the complex power dynamics and consent issues related to sex work in a particularly careful or thoughtful way, from my 2017 perspective.

There’s a lot of booze, at least one joint, and maybe even a baggie of pills being passed around and Harry has had his share of the first two when he slips upstairs. He’s a little foggy, but it’s _time_ and this may be his only chance this week to really _enjoy_ himself _._

He’s thinks the others will be occupied with the party crew for a while. Actually, he’s not sure Zayn or Niall will be physically able to make it all the way back to their room and Liam-that sober, anxious daddy- will _definitely_ not let them out of his sight until he’s sure they’re alright. 

So Harry has the place to himself for an hour or two or more. He checks the clock on his phone- it’s 9:55, and all he really needs is thirty-five minutes. 

Tommo starts his show at ten and, even though it’s an hour, Harry can only afford the first half without raising suspicion. His mum has given him a credit card to use while he’s here for any extra expenses he might have. She probably wouldn’t like that he’s spent most of it on new clothes, late night trips to McDonald’s, weed, and, well, live porn. 

The porn site he’s found is _awesome_. It shows up on his bill as something inconspicuous- Lyric Inc. or something- and if you look it up- which Harry has- the corporate website is equally bland saying that they specialize in ‘personal essentials.’ 

And, more importantly, the guys it hosts are _so_ fit. In the few weeks he’s been out on his own, Harry’s watched four shows with three different dudes. They’d all been hot- he was actually watching them strip and touch themselves _live_ \- but Tommo, whom he’d happened to select for his third show- Tommo was the _hottest._

Harry thinks he might be satisfied wanking to Tommo’s show forever. 

From what he can tell, the boys on the site all run mostly the same routine. Rub themselves through their clothes, disrobe, tug their cocks to full hardness, toy with their own asses a bit and then presumably fuck themselves on their fingers or a dildo. Harry has to presume that’s how they usually end because he’d only watched all the way through on his very first time before deciding spending that much money was too risky especially when he had yet to make it more than twenty minutes before shooting his own load. 

They all talk, too, and, aside from his incredible arse, that’s what makes Tommo special. 

The first guy Harry’d watched had moaned a lot of “oh yeah”s and “fuck”s and “so good”s. It’d made Harry uncomfortable and he’d turned off the sound and kept it off for the next show as well. 

But when he’d turned on Tommo, he’d reconsidered the choice about thirty seconds in. Mostly because thirty seconds in Tommo was still sitting on his bed, caressing a dildo as he’d talked and talked and talked. 

Harry didn’t know there were words worth fifty pounds per half hour, but he figures he’s already paid for them, so he might as well find out.

Tommo’s voice had surprised Harry, soft and high andNorthern. 

And then Tommo’s words had started to come together and Harry was _hooked_. 

Harry’s eagerfor tonight’s show. He shuts the door to the room, strips down to his boxers, pulls out his computer and headphones and settles into his bunk. 

He logs into the site just in time. Tommo’s video clicks on and Tommo smiles right into the camera, right at Harry. 

“Hello, love,” he says and Harry resolutely does not think about how many other people are on the receiving end of that endearment. 

“Tonight, I hoped we could do things a little differently,” he says, with a flip of his hair. He looks young, Harry thinks, not too much older than himself. Harry wonders if he’s still in school or maybe at University. He wonders if he has a day job at a clothing store and if he still lives with his mum. 

“I usually want you alone, all to myself.” Tommo’s spinning around on his desk chair, now, and it would probably seem juvenile if Harry wasn’t hanging on his every word. 

Harry can imagine it, too. Tommo sneaking into the house, sneaking into the party downstairs, sliding into place behind Harry and murmuring in his ear, “Let’s get out of here, go upstairs where we can be _alone_.”

Then he’d disappear and Harry would follow and they’d strip down together, curl up into Harry’s bunk together, and they’d—well, they’d do whatever Tommo’s about to tell him to do. Because Tommo is the boss. 

“Tonight, I’d like other people to _know_ how good I am to you, so I’m going to need you to go out somewhere other people might find you- your living room, your kitchen, your garden- or, at the very least, open your door.” 

Harry would like to take his laptop downstairs, maybe to the kitchen, but he’d been given a stern (and relatively threatening) talking to by the film crew about public nudity not three days ago.

“I’ll give you an extra minute. Actually, I don’t know. Can I do that?” Tommo runs a finger along his cheek and scrunches his nose, while he clicks around on his computer. Then, he looks up, directly at the camera and says, “Well, _go on_.” 

Harry tiptoes over and cracks the door, but on the way back to the bunk, he thinks better of it and flings the thing wide instead. 

When he returns to the computer, Tommo is talking again, soft and sweet, now. “Good, very good. Thank you,” he’s saying and smiling. 

“You’re welcome,” Harry tells him, even though he can’t hear. Harry always appreciates politeness and his mother would be appalled if he didn’t return it. 

Tommo sighs. “Alright, I’ve had a request to play Simon Says. I think the requester may have wanted to call the shots, but that’s not how I work. We can give it a go, but I’ll be Simon.” 

Harry briefly pictures Simon Cowell sitting where Tommo is, preparing for his inevitable failure. The image makes him giggle. 

“So in case you’ve forgotten, the way this works is that you do what I tell you, _only if I first say_ ‘Simon says.’” Tommo flicks a piece of hair out of his face. “Do you think you can handle that?” 

The question is spoken so kindly and so directly that it feels _genuine_ to Harry. 

“Yeah,” he can’t help but reply even though he isn’t actually sure. His brain power is seriously compromised by Tommo’s tan skin and blue eyes and soft tummy. He steels himself. 

Tommo taps a finger to his lips. “Simon says _touch your lips_.”

Harry brings his own finger to his lips and lets it rest there, all the while focused on the Tommo’s small smirk. 

“Good,” Tommo says. He reaches behind himself and tugs at the collar of his shirt. “Now, Simon says, _take off your trousers._ ” With that, his shirt is over his head. 

Harry pulls his own shirt off as well and then blinks, realizing that, actually, that’s not what Tommo had asked him to do. 

Tommo raises an eyebrow and then says, “That’s alright, you can keep your shirt off, too. I like the thought of you being as naked as I am.” 

Harry assumes that most of the people watching are gross old men, although he doesn’t have a good reason for making that assumption seeing as _he’s_ not even close to a gross old man. (He might be gross, but he’s _constantly_ being reminded of how young he is.) He can’t imagine the beautiful man who’s smirking at him through the camera as he unbuttons his jeans actually wants to see most of his viewers naked. 

But, Harry thinks, slipping down his boxers and taking in his own already painfully hard cock, Tommo might like to look at _him_. He’s spent most of puberty thanking god and Jesus and Zeus and Thor and all the gods he can think of that he’s a show-er (and, he likes to think, a bit of a grow-er, too). 

By the time he’s resettled, pantsless, Tommo is saying, “Simon says, pinch your nipples, both of them.” Tommo does not pinch his own nipples. He stares right into the camera and nods as if he sees and approves of the way Harry follows his instructions and gasps at the sting. 

At some point, Tommo’s hand has snaked down and now he’s rubbing his cock through the fabric of his tight white briefs. Harry’d always assumed underwear like that was for little boys and old men, but fuck if Tommo doesn’t lookgorgeousin it. It emphasizes the outline of his package and Harry can’t _wait_ to see it.

“Simon says, you’d better not be touching yourself. Naughty, naughty.” Tommo continues to stroke himself as he talks and Harry thinks that is not fair at all. He’s _paying_ for this, for fuck’s sake. He can do as he pleases! 

He could do, he realizes, but then Tommo’s next words, “Touch the tip your finger to your asshole,” send a wild shiver down Harry’s spine and, as he watches Tommo reach behind himself, Harry knows he’s paying for Tommo’s instructions as much as he is to see Tommo’s hand on his dick or his fingers in his arse. 

Tommo shakes a finger at the camera and Harry’s own hand stills on its path toward his arse. “Uh. Uh. I did not say Simon Says.” 

Tommo tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. He’s still got an arm behind him and Harry can imagine his index finger fluttering gently around the skin of his pucker. With a frown, he says, “I think we need to punish you for not following the Simon’s instructions.” 

Harry bites his lip. He doesn’t think he deserves to be punished. It’s not- _he_ hadn’t even touched himself. 

Tommo smiles, soft and understanding, and Harry swears it’s as though he can read Harry’s thoughts. He says, “It’s alright. I’ll go easy on you tonight. You’ve got a lot on your mind.” 

Harry nods and he wishes that Tommo could see him. 

Tommo grabs his cock in his fist and pulls it a few times. “I need you keep your hands off yourself. Not forever, just for a few minutes, until I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson.” 

He reaches his other hand down to play with his balls and Harry wants to mimic the action so badly. His own balls are _aching_. “Now, you can sit on your hands if that helps, but no sneaky fingers.” 

He lets go of his cock and points at the camera, “Except mine. My finger is about to get very sneaky. Would you like to see?” 

He tilts his head and brushes his fringe out of his eyes. He has beautiful eyes. Harry wonders if they’re as blue in person. 

“I’m going to turn around now,” he glances down and gives his cock another three or four forceful strokes, “so have a good look while you can.”

Then he smirks at the camera, “As if you haven’t been waiting for the view from behind.” 

Harry has been waiting for this, of course, because even setting aside Tommo’ mouthiness, he’d have returned for second show and another after that. Tommo has the loveliest arse he’s ever seen. 

It’s so round and so pink and Harry wants to grab it and smack it and kiss it. He clenches his fists as he watches Tommo turn around to kneel on his desk chair. Harry’s itching to touch himself, but he’s also desperate to follow Tommo’s instructions. 

Tommo looks over his shoulder at the camera and smiles, running a hand down his back and over his arse. He cups himself and says, “You’d like to hold this wouldn’t you? I’d like that, too.” 

Harry’s never touched another man’s arse before- well, aside from the occasional bro-buttslap – but he’s sure Tommo would like it. He’s sure he could make it good for him. He’s willing to learn, to practice, to try and retry as many touches as it takes to master the art of pleasuring Tommo. 

Tommo separates his cheeks, revealing the pink skin puckering around his hole. It looks soft and smooth and Harry wishes that it were _his_ finger tracing circles around it, not Tommo’s own. Harry’s never thought too much about assholes, not before he’d started watching these porn shows, but Harry knows his own is spattered in hair and, he thinks, probably sort of gross. 

He wants to know how Tommo’s keeps his so neat and clean and _beautiful._ There’s a private messaging function on the website and Harry’s sort of tempted to use it. It costs extra, though, and there’s no guarantee Tommo will answer helpfully. 

Tommo’s finger presses into his hole and Harry winces. He might not have much experience in sticking things up arses, but he does know that you’re not supposed to do it dry. Like, friction is a _problem_ , a painful problem. But he watches as Tommo’s finger sinks in easily past his first knuckle and then almost to his second.

He pulls the finger out and it glistens in the soft light. Harry realizes he must’ve already put oil or lube or whatever inside himself somehow. Maybe he’d used the flesh colored dildo that he’d worked into himself last time Harry’d watched or maybe he’d done it just like he’s doing now, with a couple of careful, clever fingers. 

He slips his finger inside himself again and Harry’s so hard and so desperate to touch himself. 

“It’s warm,” Tommo says, pitching his voice lower. “Tight, too.” He begins to pull his finger out, but he pauses, to say, “You’d better not be touching yourself. I did not give you permission yet.” 

Tommo pushes in again, this time with two fingers and lets out a soft noise that draws Harry’s attention back up to his face. His eyes are fluttering shut, his eyelashes fanning out across his cheeks. Harry’s breath catches- this man is _so_ beautiful. 

He continues moaning, soft, almost surprised sounds, as he thrusts his fingers. He’s not quite so loud as the other men Harry’d watched, but he’s a lot more believable and a _lot_ more appealing. 

“Alright,” he murmurs, _finally._ “I’m ready for you, now.” 

For a moment, Harry lets himself imagine that Tommo really is _ready_ for _him_ , that he’s pulling his fingers out and smiling over his shoulder because he wants Harry inside him _right now_. 

Tommo turns to reach down. He brings up a dildo, a different one than Harry remembers, black and much larger. Harry’s got a big cock and he’s quite proud of it. The phallus Tommo’s begun to stroke is enormous and Harry would be hard pressed to believe that _anyone_ ’s cock is _that_ big. 

Tommo resettles on the chair, again with his back to the camera, his beautiful arse on display and seemingly close enough to grab. 

As he positions it at his entrance, a little flutter of nerves rises in Harry’s belly. He doesn’t want Tommo to _hurt_ himself. 

He prods inside with just the tip and Harry winces in sympathy. 

“You feel amazing,” Tommo tells him. He looks over his shoulder to add, “I want you to feel _this_ good, too, love. Go ahead, touch yourself.” 

Harry doesn’t hesitate and once he has himself in hand he begins to tug, maybe a little too furiously

The dildo disappears just an inch farther into Tommo and he says, “Nice and slow, love. We want to enjoy this.” 

Harry whines and tries to slow down, but he’s been waiting _so_ long and Tommo looks _so_ good. Tommo pushes the dildo another couple of inches farther and now more of it’s in him than out of him. He’s not looking at the camera and Harry can see that his legs are trembling very slightly. 

“Almost there. Patience.” Harry does not have patience, though, and he comes, spurting wetly, all over his hand at the exact moment that dildo settles fully inside Tommo. 

His breathing is so loud he almost misses Tommo says, “Very good. You’re doing _very_ good.” 

He realizes he must’ve shouted when he hears the hustle of feet up the stairs. Luckily, he’s able to throw the covers over him and think of an excuse before Liam comes in. It’s a good excuse, too, seeing as Liam spends the next thirty minutes searching the house for the rat Harry’d swears he’d just seen. 

~

Harry likes boys. He can’t remember _not_ liking boys. It’s never been some big secret. He doesn’t announce it or anything, but, like, at sixteen, with his hormones _raging,_ it’s difficult to keep it contained. 

Like, boners are a thing he gets and, not that he likes to brag about it (well, he kind of does), but his erections are big enough to stand out, no matter how baggy the trousers he wears. 

And he doesn’t like to lie. He’s going to be upfront about his preferences with anyone who asks. His first real crush was Niall Horan- he’ll say it in front of Sugarscape and God and anyone who wants to listen. 

(It wasn’t mutual, which was a bummer, but, well, they _are_ bandmates so it might’ve gotten complicated anyway.) 

So he’s never had a boyfriend, yes, but he’s never had a girlfriend either. Just lots of porn. 

And, well, he _likes_ girls, too. They make awesome friends. It’s not his problem if people think he’s flirting when he’s being polite and, like, friendly. 

Well, it’s not his problem, until it is, and he’s making news (in gossip magazines, at least), for being a womanizer. Like, it’s funny at first. Because, _no_ way is Harry sleeping with _any_ of those women. He likes to flirt and he’s always gotten on well with women. The strange part is that _everyone_ seems to believe _easily_ that he’s sleeping with every female he’s photographed with. 

He tells himself (and the other boys, much to their grossed out dismay) that it would be much more palatable if he were getting laid on a regular basis by _someone with a dick_.

Really, his handlers should have seen the problem from a mile away. 

The first incident happens after their show at G-A-Y. 

Harry is able to slip out of the dressing room relatively easily. The other boys are vibrating with energy as they pic confetti out of each other’s hair. It’s amazing to be performing for an audience, of course, particularly the people in the audience that had come out specifically to see them. 

Zayn keeps making jokes about how this audience is probably even easier for them than the girls that have begun to wait outside the X Factor house before shows. Niall cackles every time- like, Zayn’s said something _hilarious._

Harry doesn’t think it’s _that_ funny. Like, _he_ kind of hopes that Zayn is right. The stage lights had been too bright to see much, but he’s pretty confident that the crowd of broad-chested, big-armed lads that they’d seen when they’d peeked out the backstage doors before they went on was the same crowd shouting and singing and catcalling while they’d been performing. Harry hopes that at least some of these _men-_ not even boys, _men_ \- had been excited about _him_.

The place is packed, eyes and hands and shoulders all pressing into him as he makes his way toward the bar. He finds some space next to a rail just out of the bartender’s line of vision. He shakes his hair out and tries to look available. His blazer is _hot_ and he wishes, suddenly, that he’d thought to take it off. He looks _so_ out of place among the t-shirts and sparkly vests of most of the club’s patrons. 

But, well, maybe someone will recognize his outfit from when he was onstage and want to buy a drink for the talent. At least, that’s what he’s hoping for- a drink and, if he’s lucky, a proposition. He doesn’t necessarily want to get laid; he wants to see if he _could_ get laid. 

He feels a little sting on his arse and whirls around to see a very large, but very beautiful man smiling at him. He’d pinched him. Harry takes him in- blond and broadfaced, in a tight white shirt and covered in glitter.

He’s holding two drinks and he offers one to Harry. It’s sweet and pink and Harry can’t taste any alcohol, so that’s good. The man moves in real close, close enough to whisper in Harry’s ear. “You look like you’d be a good fuck. Loud.” 

Harry blinks up at him and pictures this man laying into him from behind. The man waggles his eyebrows and sways a bit. Harry wonders how drunk he is. Harry wouldn’t have led with that line, but, if anything- it’s very clear. 

“Harry,” a voice calls. “Harry, they’re looking for you backstage!” It’s a voice he doesn’t recognize, which is odd because he’s made it a top priority to get to know each and every one of the people they work with. It’s only polite. 

Maybe it’s security from the club or something. But no, a body emerges from the crowd- the body attached to the voice- and that body he _definitely_ recognizes.

“Harry,” the guy says clutching at Harry’s arm. Harry cannot believe this is happening. He opens his mouth to speak to the guy, but no sound comes out. The other guy laughs- and his laughter is thatmuch prettier in person. 

Still laughing, he turns to the man who Harry’s fairly certain had been about to chat him up, “Sorry, mate. You can follow him on twitter.” 

And then Harry finds himself being dragged back in the direction of the stage. “Big up on the performance, by the way. Watched you all the way through to the finals. My sisters were voting for Liam, obviously, but me and my mum can see that you’re the real star of the group.” 

Harry opens his mouth. He’s still not exactly sure what’s happening. He’s not sure why his porn is walking and talking with him. 

Fuck. 

_Tommo_ has his hand on the small of Harry’s back. 

Harry will never forget this night. 

Harry takes a deep breath, trying to calm the rabbiting of his pulse, and as he does Tommo’s words finally begin to make sense. “Wait, _you_ watched _me_?!”

Tommo squeezes his side. “Maybe you could give me an autograph? In exchange for me saving your arse from being unintentionally pounded by Big Muscles back there?” 

Harry stops in his tracks, astonished. “You think he wanted to fuck me?” 

Tommo rolls his eyes. “That’s why people go to clubs, Harold, to fuck or get fucked and that guy was definitely the former.” 

Harry tilts his head, suddenly _very_ curious. “Is that why _you’re_ here?” 

Harry thinks this would be _wild_. Tommo fucks himself beautifully (and thoroughly) twice a week for an audience. People would probably _pay_ to fuck or be fucked by him. 

Tommo shoves him forward, “No, you dumb bastard, I just said. I was here to see you.” 

Harry turns to face Tommo. “Me?”

They reach the backstage door and the bouncer gives them a curt nod. 

Tommo opens the door and gestures Harry inside. “Not, like, _you._ I came to see One Direction. My younger sisters put me on a mission to have your pictures signed.” 

The narrow hallway leading to the dressing rooms is bustling with people trying to get everything ready for the next act which is already five minutes late in starting. 

“So you didn’t come for sex?” Harry regrets the words as soon as their out of his mouth. He’s maybe a little _too_ interested in Tommo and the club and _sex_. And it’s probably creepy. 

Tommo shimmies at him and waggles his eyebrows. “Why?” he asks. “You like what you see?” 

Harry coughs and is- _thank god-_ saved from answering by Liam who pokes his head out the door of a room on the left looking _incredibly_ distressed. 

“Harry! You can’t just run off like that. This place is, like, _dangerous_.” 

As they step into the room, Zayn adds, “Yeah, for proper _twinks_ like you.” 

Everyone notices Tommo at the same time, probably, because, with two quick, hard taps to Harry’s shoulders, he steps out into the center of the room, begins to unbuckle his belt, and announces, “I need your autographs, on my arse preferably. Make you feel proper famous.” 

“Who the fuck are you?” Niall asks, mouth full of chips at the same time Liam shouts, “Keep your trousers on or I’ll call security.” 

“I’m Louis,” Tommo tells them. “And I rescued this one-“- he runs a casual hand through Harry’s curls-“-from a certain doom. So you need to give me your autographs in return. For my sisters.” 

Zayn pulls out his phone. “Sorry, Harry. You’re not a twink. _This guy’s a twink_.” 

Harry makes a face at Zayn. “How long did you spend on your hair yesterday, just for _rehearsal_?” 

“Alright lads,” Tomm- Louis says, raising his hands in a placating manner. He pulls a stray setlist off the floor. “Just put your names down here. You can make it out to ‘Louis and the girls.’ My sisters won’t mind.” 

Harry reaches for the paper and the door to the room swings open again. Kelly, the girl who’s been managing their transport the last few weeks looks incredibly harried, but also incredibly relieved. “Oh thank _fuck_. Harry’s back.” 

“I found him,” Louis interjects. 

“Oh god, who’re you?” She looks him up and down and her face sours. She turns to Harry. “You can’t just pick up boys. _Shit_ , Harry.” 

“I wasn’t- I’m not-“ Harry stutters. 

Zayn laughs and Niall joins in because apparently Kelly’s assumption that Harry wants to sleep with Louis is _hilarious_. 

It’s not _that_ funny. Harry has spent the last five months imagining himself fucking and being fucked by Tommo in different places and positions, at different times of day and in different outfits. He _really_ wants to sleep with him. 

He shoots Zayn a dark look. “You’re just jealous.” 

To which Louis says, “So you two _are_ boning?” He sounds delighted. 

Kelly throws up her hands. “I do not have time for this tonight. The car is waiting. Let’s go.” 

And that’s it, Harry finds himself ushered out, Tommo- right there in person, eyelashes and all- calling after them, “What about my autographs?” 

It’s innocuous, Harry’s first real attempt to get picked up, when all is said and done, but it _does_ catch the attention of their management.

He’s pulled aside the next week and given a talking to about discretion and NDAs. All the boys had been given the full run down of sex ‘dos and don’ts’ pretty early on, but apparently if Harry is going to be trying for boys, the stakes are _much_ higher. At least, that’s what Joe the PR guy who always wears a suit tells him. 

So, when the second incident happens, even though Harry’s _very_ careful, everyone loses their collective shit. 

Their run-in at G-A-Y does not stop Harry from watching Tommo’s shows , though he admits it should. Tommo isn’t just ‘Tommo the bossy camboy with the spectacular arse.’ Tommo is a real human being called Louis _with sisters and mum_ who watches X Factor and stalks minor celebrities. 

Knowing all this makes the show better. Having seen Tommo in person, he knows his beauty isn’t a trick of the lighting or the angle of the camera lens. Louis had been breathtaking- skin even smoother, eyes even bluer than they appear on film. 

When Tommo talks about wanting to get his hands all over the person on the other side of the camera, Harry can imagine it. He can imagine it because it’s _happened._ Louis guided him thought that club _by touch_. 

But knowing all this also makes the show worse. Having been out to the club and having watched men grind on each other, having been almost propositioned himself, Harry wishes, more than _ever_ that his sexual expression wasn’t limited to watching porn. 

He thinks a lot about what Louis said- about how most of the men in the club were there to fuck or get fucked. Harry wants to try both. He wants to _learn_. He wants to suck someone’s dick and have his own dick sucked. He wants to experience the feeling of someone else’s fingers inside him. He wants- maybe- to have his arsehole _licked_. 

Like, Tommo talks about rimming as though it’s heaven and Harry’s ready to experience _heaven_. 

So he does a little research about the gay clubs around London. He wants to find one that’ll let him in underage and where he’ll definitely get laid. The message boards he discovers are surprisingly helpful. 

And, so, just a week after meeting Tommo, he heads to the nearest tube stop with a mission he’s calling, _Mission Grind on a Dude and Hopefully Get Dick Sucked_. It seems like a good place to start. 

The bar he’s heading to is not quite reputable. According to the people posting, they get away with letting in underage kids by not drawing attention from classier crowds. Harry’s not too worried. He doesn’t plan on drinking (much) and he’s brought his own condoms. 

He’s been to clubs before G-A-Y. Okay, he’s been to _a_ club before, once. He’d gone out with the other boys in December and stood in line beside a group of girls in _very_ high heels who’d been unimpressed with the fact that they had no facial hair to go with their carefully styled quiffs. Harry’d loved it though- the lights, the music, the dancing. 

He’s sure he’ll like the gay club even better because _boys_ and _sex._

He has to pass several busy, loud establishments with neon lights on the way from the tube stop to the destination. When he arrives, he’s surprised to find that there’s no line, only a couple of folks smoking near the street. The sign marking the door flickers. 

There’s a burly man sitting on a stool just inside and Harry’s stomach flutters. Harry doesn’t even have a fake ID to hand him, but thankfully the man doesn’t ask for one, just looks Harry up and down and gestures him inside. 

The place is small and pretty empty, only ten or fifteen people in total, all sitting at the bar or at the tables close to it. Nobody is dancing to the Springsteen tune playing on the Juke Box. He’s the only person in the place younger than his mom. 

He’d never really thought about _old_ gay people before, but, now that he’s here, he can’t think of anything else. Young and inexperienced with _glittery eyeshadow_ and a tight white shirt- he _definitely_ sticks out. Heads are turning, eyebrows are raising, and this is not how he’d expected his night to end up. 

He’s considering trying one of the hipper bars he’d walked by earlier, when the bartender calls out, “Hey kid, first drinks on the house.” He holds out a tumbler of dark brown liquid. 

Harry walks over and downs it in one gulp, choking. It burns _so_ badly. The bartender eyes stay on him and, after a moment he says, “You were on the X Factor, weren’t you? I remember your curls.” He chuckles. “Figured one of you had to be gay.” 

Harry’s one hundred percent sure he’s signed something somewhere that prohibits him from telling strangers that he’s anything other than straight. He says, weighing each word, “I don’t think I’m who you think I am.” 

The bartender smiles and winks at him. “Don’t worry. I don’t have a connection at the Sun or anything.” Then he smirks and leans in close. He points over Harry’s shoulder to guy a leaning up against a booth in the back. “Joseph does, though. His boyfriend works there.” 

The man in question is younger and better dressed than most of the other clientele in tight black jeans and he’s chatting with amiably with a couple who looks older than Harry’s grandparents. 

Harry’s in such deep shit. 

“Um,” he tells the bartender.

Again, the man laughs and points, this time to the door in the back that says toilet in big red letters. “You’d better head in there and call a ride. You might not be as anonymous as you think. You can go out the back door, if you like.” 

Harry’s really not that famous. He knows he’s not, but it’s probably better to be cautious. 

Linda from management- Niall calls her their ‘babysitter’- is driving the car that picks him up. The first thing she says is: “You can’t do this.” 

Feeling disappointed and petulant, Harry retorts, “What? Be gay? Too bad that’s not how it works.” 

He’d meant to thank her and apologize. He’d sat on the closed toilet and planned out everything he needed to say, but it’s been a rough night and hopefully even his mother would forgive his bad manners, considering the circumstances. 

Linda ignores him. “First of all, you’re underage. Second of all, we’d need NDAs and all kinds of things, unless you’d like pictures of your tiny dick and stories about how quickly you come all over the internet.” 

Harry kicks the dashboard. “I don’t have a tiny dick and I don’t come too quickly.”

The woman straightens her shoulders. “Not the point. Tonight we pray to god nobody got a picture of you and tomorrow we’ll brainstorm how to fix this, Lothario.” 

Harry folds his arms across his chest and stares out the window to watch the dim shop fronts flash past. 

“Does your mother know?” Linda sounds very tired. “You probably want to tell her you’re gay before she finds out from the papers.” 

Harry sighs and turns toward her. “She knows. _Everyone_ knows.” 

Her grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Who _exactly_ is ‘everyone’? Wait, don’t tell me now. Just make a list and email it _tonight_ before you go to bed. Make sureit’s complete.” 

They pull up in front of the row of townhouses where Harry lives with the rest of the boys and Linda looks close to tears. “Why didn’t you tell us before?” 

“I did! I kept saying.” 

Linda laughs. “You were joking about it. Just like all the boys. You were always smiling when you said so. It was a _joke_.” 

Harry opens the door. “You _thought_ I was joking.” He slams it behind him. It’s so rude, he _knows_ and he’ll apologize tomorrow. 

But he’s bitter with Linda and with his contract. 

And he’s disappointed. He was supposed to give his first _blow job_ tonight. 

~

People are trickling out of the boardroom when he arrives the next day. It’s clear the larger team has already met without him. A man wearing a suit and lawyer-ish glasses pats Harry on the shoulder and says, softly, grudgingly, that he’s impressed by the number of people that Harry’s come out to, even if that makes _his_ job that much more difficult.

Linda gestures him into the room. She looks like she hasn’t slept and suddenly Harry feels like a terrible inconvenience. The feeling worsens as Linda explains the problems his sexual orientation is creating for everyone from the team gathered to his bandmates to Simon to the CEOs at the record label. 

The other boys weren’t allowed to sit in with him, but his mom is present on Skype. She’s still technically his guardian and was even privy to part of the earlier meeting. 

Linda summarizes the strategy the team had concocted to contact everyone who knows and how they’ll keep them quiet. 

Harry stiffens as she continues on to the topic of ‘creating an alternate narrative.’ Harry’s so _charming,_ she tells them, and the idea of Harry as The Flirt is already popular. Setting him up on dates with high profile starlets and playing up his reputation of philanderer will go a long way to fortify his image as a handsome, desirable, available, _straight_ boybander. 

To his total mortification, she clarifies in person what she’d asked over text as he’d finished his cereal this morning: _had Harry_ ever _had any relations with another man, sexual_ or _romantic?_

He hasn’t. 

She breathes a sigh of relief and begins to pull out some documents for him to look over and sign. 

He realizes, as far as management is concerned, as long as Harry’s in One Direction, that isn’t going to change. They expect him to continue on, a lonely virgin indefinitely. 

Which is not acceptable. He’s a teenage boy! He has _needs_. 

He glances at his mom’s face on the television screen. She looks as unhappy as he feels. 

“What if I want to date?” 

“We did talk about that,” Linda assures him with a small smile. “If you should become involved with someone, you’ll have to keep it a very, tight secret.” 

“Okay, but how am I supposed to meet people if I can’t go to bars?” 

She fingers her own wedding ring. “Lots of people meet their partners in other settings, Harry, don’t be ridiculous.” 

“How are people even supposed to know I’m on the market if I’m supposedly straight and dating supermodels.” 

Linda looks at Harry’s mom. “This is a little awkward, but, if you’d like, we can set you up with someone. We have connections with some very discreet services.” 

Harry’s eyes widen. “Oh my god. I want a boyfriend, not a hooker.” 

She shrugs. “Right, of course. But the option is available, if you change your mind. Sometimes it’s easiest, simplest, to pay for people’s company and their silence.” 

Harry shakes his head. He doesn’t want _that_. 

~

Harry is lying across the other boy’s laps on the dressing room couch, as he explains what’s happened. Niall squeezes his feet and Zayn pets his hair and, between them, Liam tries to maintain as little contact with Harry as possible. 

He cares, though, because he says, “So, you’re basically you’re a virgin as long as they still think we have the chance to make it big.” He sounds as appalled as Harry feels. 

“My hand does a better job than any girl I’ve ever met,” Niall puts in, unhelpfully. 

“I’m _sure_ boys are better at that sort of thing. They’ve been ‘practicing’ on themselves for years, you know? And, like, what about blow jobs and, like, _sex_ sex.” Harry’s trying not to whine, but he’s probably unsuccessful given the sad pout Zayn shoots down at him. 

Pulling on a curl, Zayn says, “There’s got to be a way around this. They can’t, like, completely prevent you from having sex.” 

“Yeah,” Niall agrees heartily. “Sex is like a human right, isn’t it? Even people in prison are allowed to have sex, aren’t they?” 

Harry closes his eyes and holds back the tears. His life is more controlled than that of a convicted _criminal_. 

“What if you found someone and they swore to keep it a secret, like they told us we could do with girls?” Zayn speaks softly, but his words are hard. 

“Yeah,” Harry sighs. “They said I could do that. But the problem is: how am I supposed to ‘find someone’?” 

Liam shifts. “I think Joe, that guy they brought in to help with some of the tour choreography, I think he’s gay, or something. He was, like, hitting on me.” 

“Ew, no,” Harry cries. “He’s like 30 or something.” 

Zayn shrugs and the motion jostles Harry. “Maybe he could teach you a thing or two. That could be hot.” 

Harry scrunches his nose. He thinks about how Tommo directing him (and many others, probably) via webcam to find his prostate two nights back. It’s not that he doesn’t like being directed, it’s more that, “His ass was way too small.” 

Niall bangs his head back against the couch. “Beggars can’t be choosers, Hazza.” 

“You guys can get the prettiest girls. It’s not fair that I should have to-“ 

“Dancers are very flexible,” Liam says, cutting him off. 

Harry pinches them and then admits, _finally_ , what’s been on his mind all day. “They said could hook me up with a, erm, _professional_ , if I wanted.” 

Niall laughs, a lot, and Liam smiles, too. Zayn frowns, though, because, Harry knows, he can tell that Harry’s not joking. 

“Wait,” Niall says, catching his breath. “You’re serious? You’d rather _pay_ someone than do Joe the choreographer.” 

Liam shoves at his legs. “That’s _stupid_.” 

Zayn runs a finger down Harry’s cheek. “Unnecessary, babe. But I could see why you’d think about it.” 

Niall’s stopped laughing. “Actually,” he says. “It might be great. They’d probably be _very_ good at, like, _fucking_. They definitely wouldn’t let it slip, if they do this a lot with famous people, I mean. _And_ you could probably pay them to do whatever kinky shit you want. Like, well, I was going to say butt stuff, but I guess that’s probably not _that_ kinky, if you-.” 

“Prostitution is wrong,” Liam insists. “I can’t believe you’d even consider it.” He wiggles like he’s trying to get up. 

Harry rolls onto the floor, banging his shoulder. Zayn leans over to pat his head. “I think it’s bedtime.” 

~

Harry wouldn’t really consider it. Joe the choreographer _is_ probably the smarter option. Maybe he could even help set Harry up with other dudes his own age. 

The thing is.

The thing is there’s a button on Tommo’s page that says, “Click for information about my in-person work.” Harry’s been curious about it since his very first show. Louis’ ass is _so_ beautiful. 

And then when he’d met him in person, when he’d seen that it wasn’t a trick of the light, that his skin actually _glowed_. Well, after that, he’s had to work hard to restrain himself. He’s made a little list of reasons why clicking the link would be a bad idea. 

But now that management has suggested that a ‘professional’ might be the easiest and smartest way for him to get laid. Well, _now_ , he has an excuse. 

After everyone’s in bed and the townhouse has quieted down, Harry rewatches one of Tommo’s shows, comes twice, and then emails Linda Tommo’s details and asks if she can arrange a meet-up. She emails back almost immediately that she’ll probably need to do a background check and an interview with the kid first, but she’ll do her best to work it out.

Harry tries not to get his hopes up.

XXX

The call comes in when Louis is watching a film. The cinema is empty and he’s already seen the film four times, but the number is blocked and he lets it go to voicemail. 

He checks his messages on his way to the car after the show. The first is from his mother who is exasperated that his shift has run long again. (This is technically not true, as Louis does not work at the cinema like he’s led her to believe. He’d simply gotten to chatting with Ollie who _does_ work at the cinema after his show.) 

The second message, presumably left by the caller from the blocked number, catches Louis off guard. 

A woman, voice pitched low, her words hanging tightly together, explains that she has a proposition for him, an offer from a wealthy client who wishes to employ his professional services. 

At first, he assumes she must be wanting to bring him in on a pyramid scheme, but as a he goes to delete the message, running her words through his mind a second time, he realized she’d addressed him “Mr. Tomlinson,” yes, at the beginning of the call, but then, later, right before she’d rung off, as “Tommo.” 

There’s only one area of his life where he goes by that name. And, as it’s the area that’s currently putting petrol in his tank and clothes on his back, he figures he’d better call back. 

“This is Linda,” the woman answers her mobile, voice just as brisk as it had been in the message. 

“Hello,” Louis says. “Louis Tomlinson, returning your call.” 

She’s not from the company that pays, no. She’s seen an ad on his page that says he does in person work and while he vaguely remembers choosing that option when he’d first been hired, he hasn’t felt desperate enough to open any of the email offers that have come his way. 

He’s confused as to how she’s found his phone number, but she sounds a bit scary and he doesn’t want to upset her any more than his refusal undoubtedly will. 

“I’m sorry but I’m not _actually_ a prostitute.” 

He hears honking and street noise and he wonders if the woman is London. Louis’ always wanted to live in London. He’s been saving up for it for ages and he’s even gone into the city several times over the last few months to visit clubs and to scope out flats. He probably even has enough in the bank to move now, but he can’t bear to leave his mother alone with his sisters, not so soon after her divorce. 

It’s been quiet on the line for a few seconds now and Louis has the feeling that the woman is waiting for him to say something more. 

Finally, she sighs. “Alright, Mr. Tomlinson. Name your price.” 

Louis laughs. He’d thought she was like some kind of high powered Private Investigator or something, the way she’s found his number. But she clearly did not do her homework. “I’m serious. I’m just a normal nineteen year old lad who’s found an easy way to bring a bit of cash on the side. I have no interest in letting some fat, ugly, old man spank me or whatever your client wants.” 

“My client is neither fat, nor ugly, nor old. He’s a cute kid, actually. And, while he has not said as much to me, I think he’d be quite _satisfied_ with a handjob.”

Alarmed, Louis replies, “I’m not a pedophile either. Jesus, lady.”

“My client isn’t underage.” She’s beginning to sound very impatient with him. The street noise has faded into road noise and he thinks she must be driving. 

“Well, then. If he’s young and fit and easy, why does he need a prostitute?” Louis’ curiosity is rising. What kind of boy has a scary older woman hire a stranger from the internet to give them a hand job?

“Before I answer any more questions, I’ll need you to come into the office and sign some paperwork.” 

Louis doesn’t reply. He’s practically itching with the need to find out more. 

The woman says a number, just one number and Louis is confused. But then he realizes this must be the offer, what her ‘client’ would pay for the handjob. It’s a little more than he makes over three cam sessions. 

“Tell me when and where I should meet you,” he agrees. 

The address she gives him _is_ in London. It’s crazy- his mother would _kill_ him if she found out- but it’s also the most exciting to happen to Louis since his very first boy kiss in the locker room at age 14. 

~

Louis signs at least fifteen different documents, so he can’t be exactly certain, but he thinks he’s agreed not to speak (or tweet or snapchat) a word of any of this, in exchange for the opportunity to meet the ‘client’ for dinner. Said client will pay for the meal but no other goods or services will be exchanged until after Louis’ certain the kid’s not a weirdo. 

Louis arrives at the restaurant early, a result of the train schedule, rather than punctuality, so he’s already in the booth trying to decide which expensive bottle of wine to order when he senses someone standing beside the table. 

He looks up to meet green eyes. _Very_ green eyes. 

So. The kid is definitely a weirdo. Louis realizes this straight away. 

But he’s a weirdo that Louis has been moderately interested in for the last four months or so. 

Admittedly, some would say he’s obsessed, but the one large printout that hangs beside Louis’ bed seems reasonable compared to the thirty Fizzy has up of Liam Payne and the scrapbook Lottie’s made documenting Justin Bieber’s career. 

Louis’ imagined all kinds of scenarios, all kinds of people sitting across from him in this booth. He had not once imagined that his ‘client’ would be Harry Styles. 

“Um,” Louis says, slamming his menu shut. And that’s it. That’s literally the only thing he can think to say. 

“Hello,” Harry replies, smiling and sliding into the seat across from him. 

Louis wants to poke his dimples and pull his curls and, yes, _absolutely,_ give him the handjob he’s apparently desperate for. 

But, first thing’s first. He digs through his pockets and until he finds a scrap of paper, his ticket stub from the movie he’d gone to see two nights before. 

“You owe me an autograph,” he informs Harry. “From the _last_ time I saved your ass.” 

“You remember that?” Harry’s eyes are wide and his voice goes breathy. 

Louis tilts his head. He doesn’t want to give too much away. “Zayn is a beautiful man. Difficult to forget.” He taps the ticket stub again. “Come on, then.” 

Harry looks down, staring long enough that Louis decides he must be reading the cinema’s fine print. 

Finally, Harry says, “I’ve not got anything to write with.” He’s still looking down, at Louis’ fingers, Louis realizes, when he adds, “I’ve seen those fingers up your arse.” 

Louis sighs. “Obviously. That’s why I’m here, Louise, that was her name, right? Anyway, she made me sign all these documents because you, apparently, would like to pay me to have sex with you.” 

The words fly out of his mouth before he can catch them and all the while he’s picturing Harry in front of his computer, the door to his room locked tight, following each and every one of Louis admittedly sometimes ridiculous instructions. 

Harry meets his eyes nods and swallows. “Yeah.” There’s a pause, where his mouth stays open and his eyes remain thoughtful and Louis thinks he’s going to say more, but he doesn’t. 

Louis realizes he’s been awfully blunt here. In films, fuck even in his own shows, the _professional_ is always supposed a little coy. He feels like he read somewhere that you’re paid better as a hooker when you can make your client forget that they’re paying at all. 

But, though clearly flustered, Harry doesn’t seem put off at all. “I want you to teach me stuff.” 

“Teach you stuff,” Louis repeats. Then he smiles, “Well, I don’t know what you hope to learn, but I’m terrible at maths.” 

Harry toys with the bracelets on his wrist and Louis wonders if he’s really botching this. Then, with only the barest hint of a smile on his lips, Harry says, “What _are_ you good at, then?” 

_I’ve never done this before,_ Louis wants to say. And then, maybe, _you’re more handsome in person than I realized in that club’s goddawful lighting._

Instead, he says, “I think you already know, you cheeky, cheeky boy.” 

Harry giggles, flushing, and opens his menu. 

The air hangs heavy and quiet between them and Louis feels reluctant to look at his own menu. He wants to keep watching Harry. He’s afraid he might be dreaming.

“Duck in orange sauce,” Harry says, slowly, contemplatively. 

“Is that what you’re ordering?” Louis asks. It sounds strange and expensive. His mum hadn’t really cooked a lot of (any) duck growing up. He wanted something simpler- pizza or fish and chips. 

Harry chews his lip. “I tried a similar recipe the other day. Turned out very dry. Only Niall would eat it.” 

Niall, Louis thinks. The Irish one. Then he realizes what Harry’s said, “You make your own meals?”

Harry looks up, openly amused. He kicks Louis under the table. “We’re not proper pop stars, someday hopefully, but not yet. We can’t afford personal chefs, if that’s what you’re imagining.” 

The idea of Harry hiring a professional chef isn’t _that_ ludicrous; he’s paying a professional for sex, after all. Louis does not remind him of this, though. “I thought you were always getting mobbed at the shopping centre.” 

Harry tilts his head. “It’s mostly set up. Our people know who to tell on the internet so that _tons_ of girls will show up.” 

He splays his hands out on the table. They’re quite large and Louis’ struck by the image of the giant brown paws attached to the tiny puppy body on his sisters’ lab. Harry says, “It can be quite frightening.” 

Louis remembers reading an article in the Sun recently predicting that One Direction would make it, sell out arenas around the world and gross millions, and that the key to its success would be the way Harry wooed his fans. The clip attached, which Louis is mildly ashamed to admit to having watched several times over, had shown Harry hugging girls and kissing their cheeks and telling them how wonderful they were and, _honest to god_ , how much he loved every one of them. 

“Your life must be _very_ difficult.” He finally glances down at his menu. It’s very short, only three different options for the main course- duck and salmon and lamb. As a general rule, Louis only eats pigs, cows and chickens (and, okay, the occasional deep fried, beer battered, vinegar covered fish). 

“You sound like my sister.” Harry sounds a little dejected and Louis lets his eyes flicker up to his face. He’s watching Louis closely. Louis watches back but doesn’t reply. He finds he’s curious about Harry’s sister, about his family, what they think about all this- Harry’s life going from normal to _incredible_ so quickly.

Harry must misread his silence for irritation or disinterest because he says, “You probably don’t want to have sex with someone as fake as I must seem. 

Louis shakes his head, but Harry sits back in his seat and folds his arms across his chest. 

“You’re literally _paying_ me to have sex with you.” Ah, there it is again. Louis’ truly terrible at this. He should never have agreed. 

Harry squeezes his biceps and looks around the restaurant. “You can back out. Linda said you insisted writing a clause into the contract that allowed you to say ‘no,’ to leave if you didn’t find me attractive or agreeable or whatever.” 

A waiter arrives at their table carrying a sweaty bottle of white wine. “Red or white?” he asks. 

“Red,” Harry says, decisively, as though his palette is refined enough for him to have a definite preference. Seventeen may be old enough to consent to sexual relations, but it is not old enough to buy alcohol. When Louis was seventeen (all those two years ago), the only alcohol he knew anything about was cheap beer and cheaper vodka. Being a popstar clearly has its perks. 

Louis’ been able to buy the stuff on his own for two years now and he _still_ knows nothing about _wine_. He wants to ask which is sweeter, red or white, but he’s supposed to be some sort of high end hooker and this seems like the sort of thing a high end hooker would be well versed in. 

He says, equally confident, “White.” 

The waiter fills Louis glass and then returns a minute later with a bottle of red. 

Louis takes a large sip of his- it’s fine, good, actually, maybe even the best alcohol he’s ever had, sweet and cold and smooth. Yeah, he thinks, he could probably have a conversation about the wine, if that’s what Harry expects of him. 

Louis watches as Harry picks up his own wine glass and gently swirls its contents. Then, he places the glass under his nose and sniffs gently. Finally, he takes a small sip and makes an unhappy face. 

The whole ordeal manages to be cute and funny and terribly pretentious all at the same time. 

“You have no _idea_ about wines, do you?” Louis asks. 

Harry pouts at him. 

“You’re just blagging it, I can tell, mate,” Louis insists, kicking him under the table. He’s not sure, though, not until Harry cracks a huge grin and, then, begins to laugh. 

“This takes like dry piss,” Harry says, he’s still giggling and the sight of it, the _sound_ of it, tugs at something in Louis’ chest. He wants to make Harry laugh again and again and again. 

They order their food and chit chat about Manchester, their favorite shops and the state of the footie club. They get on well and it’s all very easy, almost like a real date. 

Except that, every once in awhile, Louis remembers he’s making cash just by showing up. And also Harry is sort of famous. 

Harry invites Louis to order a dessert and, even though he’s _stuffed_ , he isn’t about to turn down fancy sweets. 

As he’s contemplating the menu, Harry asks, “So, have I passed?” 

Louis looks up and meets his gaze. He’s smiling, broad and hopeful, but Louis can see the uncertainty in his gently trembling fingers. 

“Passed what?” he asks. “I’m not a teacher.” 

“But you’ll _teach_ me right?” Louis stares at him blankly until he adds. “If you know what I mean?” Harry punctuates the latter statement with an exaggerated wink. 

Louis laughs. “Jesus, of course, yes. You’ve been waiting this whole meal, wondering if I’d say ‘yes’?” 

Harry nods. 

That’s crazy. “The first thing I did was ask for your autograph.” 

Harry shrugs and then leans forward. “Doesn’t necessarily mean you want to sleep with me.” 

“I want to sleep with you,” Louis says, just to be very, unmistakably clear. 

Harry chews his lip and Louis imagines himself doing the same, pulling the plump pink skin between his own lips and sinking in his teeth, ever so gently. He’s not sure how they get from here- sitting across from one another in this fancy as hell restaurant- to there- making out presumably in some fancy as hell hotel room. It’s probably on him, as the professional. 

Thankfully though, Harry straightens his shoulders and in a businesslike tone says, “Okay, so. Linda’s booked us a hotel room, just down the street, if you want to, like, _you know_ , tonight. But we don’t have to. We can plan for another day, if that’s better.” 

Louis blinks. Harry Styles is sitting across from him right now, with his curls and dimples, and his broad palms and broader shoulders. He’s not about to let him walk away. Louis reaches across the table and rests a hand atop Harry’s. 

He means to say something witty and flirtatious, something complimentary about Harry, but instead what comes out is, “You’d better take me to that hotel. I haven’t booked myself a bed and the last train’s about to leave the station. 

God, he’s sounds desperate. He’s supposed to be _selling_ himself here. But instead of being put off, Harry’s eyes widen as he looks down at his watch. 

He says, “Fuck, sorry, Louis. I didn’t even think about the time. I wasn’t trying to trap you here!” 

Louis squeezes Harry’s hand and then pulls back, “No, it’s fine. I have a friend in London at uni. I was planning to stay with him if you turned out to be some old-ass dude with a serial killer stare.” 

“Glad, I’ve fooled you,” Harry murmurs, face relaxing and eyes growing darker so that suddenly his gaze is very, _very_ intense. 

He looks like a serial killer _now_. Louis laughs and then so does Harry. 

They split a piece of chocolate cake. It is good chocolate cake, probably the best Louis has ever had. Rich and sweet and just a little bit tart because of the raspberry syrup drizzled on top. But, to be honest, Louis does not spend much time contemplating the taste of the cake on his tongue. He is too busy watching Harry eat. He watches Harry's fingers wrapped around the fork. He watches as Harry's lips close around the cake. He watches Harry's eyelids flutter shut as he chews. He’s startled out of his stare when Harry lets out the smallest little moan as he swallows. 

Louis wonders if he’ll be this responsive in bed. He hopes so. The pleased noises and the expressive twist of Harry’s mouth, well, they’ve already got him stiffening in his underwear. 

He wonders how long their arrangement is meant to last. Is this just for one night? If Louis is good, will Harry want him to come back again. Could this be the beginning of a more permanent situation? Is that something that Louis even wants? He's not sure. 

Harry’s curls bob around his cheeks as he pushes the now empty cake plate to the edge of the table. He blinks at Louis and pulls at his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger. Louis’ heart races. 

Harry pays the bill. If this were a normal date, Louis would offer to pick up the bill himself, being the older, more experienced of the two. If Harry put up a fight, he’d insist on paying at least half. But this was not a normal date and Louis doesn’t think he could afford even half of what the meal had cost. 

When the waiter returns to pick up the payment, he informs them that a car is waiting for them in the alley and then guides them through the kitchen and out a back door. Louis has to admit that he finds the sneaking around more than a little exciting. 

As soon as they are in the car, Harry reaches for Louis’ hand, clutching it tightly in his own. Louis glances over at him, surprised, and he immediately drops it again. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I’ve never held hands before, like, with a guy and I’ve been thinking about yours all night.” 

Louis reaches out and takes Harry’s hand. This time, he links their fingers together. Harry looks at him and then looks forward and then looks at him again. He’s smiling widely, as though he cannot believe his own luck. 

Louis can’t remember the last time he held hands either. He thinks it might have been with his girlfriend from primary school. Picking up boys at the club does not usually lead to handholding and he’s never been in a relationship, not a real one, anyway. 

They’re sitting at a light, quiet and a little awkward, when Harry’s thumb moves to stroke a line against the back of Louis’ hand. The touch is soft, barely there, but Louis can’t have imagined it because it lights up his whole body, sets it tingling, just on the edge of arousal. 

Louis copies the motion and Harry lets out a soft breath. They turn toward each other at the same moment and Louis wants to kiss him. 

Harry leans forward, but Louis’ eyes flick to the driver and he gives a small shake of his head. “Not yet.” 

Harry’s brows furrow and his grip tightens but he nods. 

“I can’t wait to kiss you,” he says, softly. “With, like, tongue.” 

Louis closes his eyes. This afternoon on the train in, he would never have guessed that at the end of the night he’d have Harry Styles- _the_ Harry Styles- beside him, begging to be kissed. With tongue. _Jesus Christ_. 

Harry leans toward him, his mouth not quite touching Louis’ ear. “I can’t stop thinking about it. Like, since I first saw you on screen.”

Louis’ getting hard, now, from Harry’s words and his proximity and the anticipation of what they’re about to do together. It’s a little embarrassing. Louis is supposed to be a professional for fuck’s sake. 

Louis meets Harry’s eyes. “Kiss me? That’s the best you’ve got, Styles?”

Harry pulls back and blinks at him. “Hey,” he replies, eyebrows drawing together. Then, catching on, he tugs his hand out of Louis’ grip and places it on Louis’ leg and whispers, “Well, no. I’ve thought of other things, too.” 

Louis looks down. Harry’s hand is large and it easily spans the width of thigh, but his touch is light, _tentative_. Louis returns his gaze to Harry’s face. He’s got his lower lip pulled tight between his teeth and a stray curl blocks one of his eyes. 

Louis says, “Oh, have you?” 

Harry nods, curls bouncing. Louis reaches up and brushes them back, letting a finger trail down Harry’s cheek as he pulls back. A smooth move. Harry must think so, too, as his eyes shut and his breath rushes out. Louis’ playing the consumate professional very well.

“Tell me more,” Louis insists. He supposes he needs to know what Harry’s interested in, like, professionally, and if Harry’s hesitant, syrupy tone is also a turn on for Louis, then he’s simply killing two birds with one stone. 

Harry swallows, his eyes not leaving Louis’ face. “I want to suck on your cock. Can I, like, give you a blow job?” 

Louis cock which has thickened to full hardness twitches in his trousers and Harry’s eyebrows jump up, in almost comical surprise and he says, “Whoops.” 

Louis tilts his head to one side and Harry clarifies, “That was _blunt_.” 

Louis grins. “I liked it.” 

Harry relaxes, but he doesn’t smile back. He says, “So, can I? Is that part of the arrangement?” 

Louis glances at the driver. His eyes are carefully trained on the road ahead. He takes Harry hand in his and then places it over his hard cock. “Yeah, I’d love for you to.” 

Harry squeezes once, softly, then again, harder. Louis lets his head drop back against his seat. This is _really_ , _really_ not how he’d imagined tonight would go. To Harry, he says, “Just… wait.” 

Harry leaves his hand resting atop Louis’ dick for the remainder of the ride. It’s short, but Louis feels every twist and bump along the way. By the time they arrive at the hotel, Louis and Harry are both out of breath, quiet and ready. 

The driver informs them that the reservations are under Louis’ name, but that Harry’s already paid. 

“I have?” Harry asks. 

The driver looks between them and rolls his eyes. “Jesus, you’re both just _kids_.” 

Harry frowns and reaches for his wallet, “I should tip you, though, right?” Without waiting for an answer he shoves a ten pound note into the driver’s hand. “Don’t say anything about this to anyone, alright?” 

As they walk up to the hotel, Louis says, “I’m sure he’s signed papers, Harry. I had to.” 

_Shit_ ,Louis’ really no good at making this whole arrangement seem casual. 

Harry nods, leading Louis to the front desk. “Of course,” he says. “I’m still not used to, like, fame, and stuff.” 

Louis lets his eyes travel down Harry’s figure, really taking in for the first time his much too baggy trousers and his slightly too tight polo shirt. “Clearly,” he says. 

Harry turns. “Hey,” he whines- Louis is sensing a pattern- adding, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Just that you wear your success very humbly.” Louis’ a little surprised by it, honestly. He’d imagined Harry being a bit more posh. 

Harry’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t reply. He heads for the front desk, but Louis cuts him off. “You stay back and keep your head down.” 

Harry gives him a little shove, “I’m not _that_ famous.” 

Louis smiles and places his hands on Harry’s shoulders. “You’re famous enough to make your hookers sign NDAs and sign into hotels using other people’s names.” 

Harry relents, pouting, and, again, Louis wonders if he’s fucking this all up. 

However, Harry’s in much better spirits as they make it up to their room, chatting happily to the woman who rides the elevator with them. 

The room is small, filled almost entirely by a king size bed. Louis takes in the flat screen TV and glossy wooden armoire and decides that this is, by far, the fanciest hotel he’s ever been in. 

He hopes that he’s allowed to stay through till morning, maybe find the pool and hot tub. He really should have been more thorough in making these arrangements. 

He glances back at Harry who’s now shirtless and working on unbuckling his belt. _Eager_ , Louis thinks, a little pleased. “You want to do this naked, then?” he asks. 

Harry freezes and meets his gaze, eyes huge. “I thought that’s how sex, like, happened.” 

Louis tilts his head. “I mean, I guess we could simply get down to business, if you’d like. But, I mean, I don’t want to embarrass you, it’s just that I was told you didn’t have much experience. I thought you might want to take things more slowly, really savor this.” 

Harry lets his hands drop. “Okay.” He watches Louis closely for a long moment and Louis realizes that he’s just put himself in charge. 

While Louis prefers to be in control in these types of situations (like, _sexually_ ), he’s a little uncomfortable with this _particular_ situation. Harry is _paying_ him and so it’s like, it’s like Harry is _actually_ in control and should Louis make one misstep, his life could be ruined. Not that he has much of a life to ruin. 

Louis’ so caught up in his head worrying that Harry speaks up before he has a chance. “So, like? Should we hold hands? Or make-out? I’ve never made-out with a guy before.” Harry sits down on the bed and the motion jostles his belt buckle and it clangs loudly. 

Louis nods, perching beside him and taking his hand. “But you’ve made out before, with girls?” 

Harry nods and they’re close enough that Harry’s curls tickle Louis’ cheek. “Of course, I have.” He sounds a little hesitant, though, and Louis’ not sure whether to believes him. He thinks everyone deserves a _good_ first _real_ kiss and, so, in case this _is_ Harry’s, Louis cups Harry’s jaw keeping his touch light and leans forward letting them settle into each other’s breath. 

It’s Harry who, with a small, low, impatient noise, finally closes the space between their lips. And his kiss lacks the tentativeness he’d demonstrated only moments before. There’s nothing uncertain about his tongue parting Louis’ lips, nor his hands finding and gripping Louis’ hips, nor his groan when Louis snaps out of his surprise and kisses back. 

Harry twists so that one of his hands slides to Louis’ lower back and the other comes to cover Louis’ crotch. He pulls away and presses their foreheads together. 

“About that blow job…” He squeezes Louis’ dick. 

Louis closes his eyes fighting to regain hold of the situation. “You’re moving _way_ too quickly, Harold. I thought you wanted to really _relish_ this. We need to take two steps back.” He looks down at Harry’s hand in his lap. “Or maybe more like three or four steps.” 

He thinks his voice, roughened with desire, might be too high-pitched to carry the command he’s going for, but Harry obeys, removing his hands from Louis’ person. 

“Let _me_ kiss _you_ ,” Louis tells him and then, eyeing Harry’s arms, adds, “Keep those to yourself.” 

Harry nods, biting his lip and closing his eyes. “Okay.” 

Louis tries to start slowly, again letting their breath mingle and the soft skin of their mouths brush, but Harry’s practically thrumming with energy and Louis’ half hard himself, after having been promised a blow job and palmed firmly. Within seconds, his lips are open and his tongue is seeking Harry’s. 

Harry sighs into it, seeming to relax as Louis takes charge. And, well, Louis _likes_ that. He runs a hand through Harry’s hair. The smooth texture of his curls feels almost as good as the wet press of his mouth and Louis is temporarily distracted, pausing in his kiss to bring up his other hand and letting his fingers rub and pull and scratch at Harry’s head. 

Harry whines, softly, and Louis sits back to study him. His lips are parted and his breathing is unsteady. His hands are spread wide on top of the covers behind him. His eyes stay closed as Louis continues to massage his scalp. 

“Harry,” Louis says, his voice embarrassingly reedy. Harry’s eyes blink open very _very_ slowly. “About that blow job.” 

Harry nods, a small smile forming on his lips. “Yeah?” 

Louis lets his hands slide out of Harry’s hair and folds his arms across his own chest. He really, _really_ fucking sucks at this. He has no idea what he was _thinking_ accepting the job. “Were you wanting me to give it to you or did you want to go down on me or both? Also, do you have condoms or…?” 

This is something Louis is sure of: a professional hooker would _never_ come to work without condoms. He’s such a fuck up. 

Harry laughs probably because he agrees, but then, confident but without malice, he says, “I do have condoms. And both would be great. Although, I’ve never done this before so I’ll, like, need to you to tell me what to do, you know?” 

Louis likes to be in control and, given the shit-eating grin that’s taking over Harry’s face, this is probably something Harry suspects. _Hell_ , he’s watched Louis’ videos, so of course he knows. Actually, Harry likelylikes to be on the other end taking orders, as he’s invited Louis to be his hooker. 

It’s not something Louis’ thought much about, up to this point, and the realization relaxes him slightly. They might be able to make this work. This might _actually_ be a good arrangement for both of them. 

He nods at Harry. “Well, then, go ahead. Take off your trousers, then.” 

Harry makes quick work of it seeming to bask in Louis’ gaze. He’s really beautiful, long limbed and lean, just the right amount of muscle to him. Looking _good_ is part of his job and Louis wonders if he has a personal trainer or something. 

Louis’ eyes return to Harry’s face and he’s transfixed by Harry’s dimples which are out in full force, apparently thrilled to be _watched_ like this. Louis might be the luckiest hooker _ever_. 

Louis’ excitement is heightened when he realizes that Harry’s _hung._ He can tell even through his pants, which are tight and white and not what dudes usually wear to impress one another in Louis’ experience. Louis swallows, captivated. Harry is huge and hard and growing huger and harder by the moment. 

Harry stands there, waiting for further instruction for what must be several slow minutes as Louis takes him in. He doesn’t really move, but his skin turns pinker and pinker. 

When he’s had enough waiting he walks back to the bed and sits beside Louis leaning in for another kiss. Louis leans away. “Hold on. Don’t you want to see me?” 

Harry nods, enthusiastically. “Yes,” he says. “Please.” 

Louis does not make a show of it, not in the same way Harry had, not in the way he does for the camera. He strips quickly, efficiently, but he’s very aware of Harry’s eyes. He’s wearing black trunks, his sexiest underwear, but, for some reason, he’s still certain the softness around his belly and the too large curve of his arse reveal him to be less sexy than Harry himself, even in boring old man’s pants. 

Harry’s hand moves to squeeze his own cock which is now standing at full attention in his lap.

Louis says, “Stop that.” 

Harry lets himself go and pouts at Louis. “When, then? Do you want me to do you first?” 

Louis tilts his head to the side. He hadn’t thought about order. As young and eager and _new_ as he is, Louis thinks Harry might be able to come twice tonight with enough time in between. He’d probably appreciate the Louis taking the edge off, as well. 

Locking eyes, Louis kneels. “You first. But I’m going to do it, not you.” 

He places his hand in Harry’s lap with a gentle touch, allowing his fist to slowly tighten around Harry’s clothed cock. Harry groans and closes his eyes. 

“Like that?” Louis teases, pleased by Harry’s responsiveness. 

Harry’s quiet for a moment and then, softly, through gritted teeth, he says, “Watch your mouth.” 

Or, at least, that’s what Louis thinks he says. It’s a little bossier than he would have expected from Harry. He hums in response and tightens his grip, strokes measured, up and down and up and down, rough fabric against his palm. 

Harry coughs, making his cock twitch up into Louis’ palm, before saying slightly louder, much more slowly and with a very distinctive _whine_ to it, “I said, ‘that’s not your mouth.’” 

Louis meets Harry eyes, which are open now and watching him. “Impatient, okay.”

Harry’s lips turn down and Louis wonders if maybe he’s said something wrong. Maybe Harry doesn’t want to be teased any longer. He tugs on the top of Harry’s pants while mumbling a soft, “Sorry, yeah. I’ll hurry.” 

Harry lets him pull down the pants, lifting up his arse and then bring his own hands down to roll the fabric over his thighs and pushing it off to fall around his ankles. It’s a good thing he helps because when his cock springs free, Louis’ lost. 

Louis’ seen _a lot_ of dicks in person- somewhere between fifteen and twenty, at least, and thousands on the internet, probably. 

(Learning to be a camboy had taken _a lot_ of research, is the thing.) 

Harry’s is unmistakably the best dick he’s ever seen in person. It’s large, larger than average definitely, maybe the largest he’s ever seen up close. He’d suspected as much. Harry had spent a considerable amount of time behind the scenes on the X factor trotting around in his pants. Louis can’t lie that he’d been mildly fascinated by the outline of his remarkably large dick. 

In person, though, the best thing about it is not that it is large, but, instead, that it is a lovely, pink color. The veins on it stand out, some a deeper pink, some blue and finds himself following the wandering paths until Harry squirms and his cock bobs. Louis reaches up to place his hands on either hips. 

“Sit still,” he hisses, looking up into Harry’s eyes. 

Harry nods. He’s got a finger in his mouth and the line between his brows is unmistakably pained. 

Louis takes Harry’s head between his lips and sucks, one firm pull. He wants Harry to enjoy his first blowjob, yes, but he’s not sure the slow, sweet pleasure that Louis’ desperate to give him is possible with him so worked up. So Louis moves quickly and works him hard. 

He brings his hands forward to guide Harry’s dick more carefully into his mouth and the moment he releases the pressure from Harry’s hips, they’re canting forward.

Louis’ own dick twitches. 

Louis squeezes the length of Harry’s cock, a reminder to Harry to not move. Harry arches again, though, and Louis finds he doesn’t really care. He doesn’t really care because it elicits from Harry another sweet little whine and a, “Yeah, _Lou,_ I’m-“ 

Harry comes _very_ quickly, but Louis’ had experience with guys with even _less_ control (his high school fuck buddy, for one), and the string of cuss words Harry lets loose sends Louis’ pulse rabbiting. 

Louis can’t believe he’d been imagining a balding, foul-breathed creep, or a titled and entitled pimply nerd. 

Harry’s sweet and funny and sexy, more engaging than any fantasy Louis’d created staring into his green eyes in the poster above his bed. 

After a minute, still out of breath, Harry, slowly, always so slowly, leans down to kiss Louis. Very aware of the come still settling in the back of his throat, Louis pulls away before the kiss can turn dirty. 

This has Harry pouting. “I want to taste it.” 

Louis rolls his eyes and says, “Can’t you do that whenever you jerk off?” 

Harry pulls Louis face closer so that they’re less than an inch apart. He shakes his head. “Not on you, I can’t.” 

Louis relents, closing the gap between their lips and letting Harry’s tongue dive into to his mouth, searching, tasting. 

When he pulls back, Harry licks his lips and waggles his eyebrows, “Good.” And then, he adds, “Fruity, just like I was trying for.” 

Louis mouth hangs open for a moment, because Harry, he like, “You thought about what your come would taste like, _for me.”_

Harry shrugs. “I wanted you to like it. Did you like it?” 

Louis crosses his arms. “You’re paying me to-“ 

“Doesn’t mean it has to be unpleasant.” Harry eyes are wide with distress and Louis remembers for the umpteenth time he’s not supposed to keep bringing that up, it’s just. He did not expect his _client_ to be like _this._

He sighs. “I liked it.” 

Harry grabs his arm and tugs. “You’re going to like this blow job even better.” 

Louis allows himself to be hauled up onto the mattress but as soon as he’s settled he pulls free from Harry’s grip and looks hard into Harry’s eyes. “You don’t have to return the favor, or anything, if that’s how you’re thinking about this.” 

Harry pulls back and fishmouths. “I _want_ to give you a blow job.” 

Louis tips his head. “For practice?” He supposes Harry might want experience, seeing as he’s admitted to having zero experience and if all he has is Louis, for now. Well, that kind of makes sense. 

Harry huffs out a laugh. “Partly.” Then he reaches over and palms Louis’ cock which is straining against the cotton, not at all deterred by the serious tone of the conversation. “And partly because I’ve been imagining what your cock would taste like for _ages._ ” 

Louis stiffens. “I haven’t prepared like you, I mean, diet-wise.” Maybe he should have; the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. He probably should have done more research on this type of work. His gut (and all the stereotypes from movies and tv also) had led him to assume, he’d be doing all the off-getting and none of the getting-off. 

But apparently that is not how the night is going to go because Harry is pulling the elastic waistband of his boxers down over his hips and thighs. He stops, though, when he gets them down to Louis’ knees. 

Louis waits thirty long seconds very, _very_ patiently before he says, “What?”

Harry leans down and rubs Louis’ cock along his cheek, breathing in deeply. The light friction causes Louis to shiver. 

Harry holds Louis’ dick in his hand. “I’ve never,” he begins, shyer than Louis’ seen him yet. He looks up at Louis. “I want it to be good for you. I want you to like it.” 

“Do you want, like, instructions?” 

Harry nods immediately and adds the words Louis’ thinking. “Like in your videos. Tell me what to do.” 

Louis nods, and then, because this had gone badly for him with a past hook-up, when he’d been on Harry’s end. “Just say if you don’t want to do something. It’s fine, but speak up.” 

Harry scrunches his nose in disgust. “Obviously.” He sounds appalled that Louis would even consider that he’d do something outside of his comfort zone, but the stretch really isn’t that difficult. Louis doesn’t like to be told what to do, not much, anyway, but this guy he’d been with had _really_ liked being _instructive_ and Louis, only sixteen at the time with not much experience under his belt, had been afraid to say ‘no’ to anything. 

He’s glad Harry doesn’t feel the same, but he supposes the circumstances are somewhat different here. What with- no, he’s not going to think about how this is a job, not right now. Right now he’s going to enjoy the way Harry’s breath is heating his cock as he sits close and ready for Louis’ word. 

“Lick it, like a lollipop, up and down the sides, and press hard.” Louis’ voice comes out a little shakier than he expects. He talks shit like this all the time for his vids and he doesn’t expect the flurry of nervousness that rises up in him when he says the words aloud, his audience right in front of him eyes wide and mouth ready. 

Harry’s tongue is pink and flat and unafraid. Harry licks as though Louis’ dick is filled with ice cream and he’s starved for it. Louis likes it. He likes it a _lot,_ in fact and he’s not sure _he’s_ going to be able to last very long himself. 

Harry pulls off and slides down the bed and onto the floor so he’s sat at Louis knee, looking up hopefully. He rolls his shoulders and, damn, Louis should have thought about whether or not he’d be comfortable, leaning across Louis’ lap like that. 

Harry’s smiling though, and he says, “This will be better, I think.” 

He leans back in for another lick and Louis’ sure he’s right. 

~Q~

Louis’ dick tastes incredible. Well, actually, that’s not _quite_ right. It’s not the taste, which _is_ better than he’d expected, so much as it’s the feel, firm and hot and _smooth_. Or maybe it’s the way Louis’ squirming above him, the way he can’t seem to figure out what to do with his hands. 

Harry wants Louis to bury them in his curls. He’s seen that in porn and he imagines it would feel fantastic. Then, Louis would be able to better guide him. 

Not that Louis isn’t doing a fantastic job of that already. He is. Really, what Harry probably likes best about this experience is the sound of Louis’ voice. 

It’s raspier in person and not quite so high pitched. The instructions he’s giving, though, are equally as confident and equally as filthy. 

Harry tries to follow each direction exactly. He tries to suck when he’s told to suck and to stroke where he’s told to stroke. He speeds up when Louis moans ‘faster’ and tightens his grip when Louis grits out ‘ _harder.’_ But it’s his first time and he knows he’s far from perfect. 

Still, he’s gratified when Louis comes with a loud grunt, his hands _finally_ moving forward to twine into Harry’s hair and _tug._ Harry’s chest swells with pride when he’s able to swallow all of what Louis lets loose, save a small wet drop that slides out the corner of his mouth. 

Louis takes a shaky breath and watches Harry watch him. One hand slips free from Harry’s hair and he uses his thumb to clean the come from Harry’s face. 

Harry tilts his head. He wants to ask if it was okay, if _he_ was okay. But it’s probably stupid and childish, to want to know if he did okay when Louis’ just come _hard_ between his lips. Also, he’s paying Louis to do this; the guy is practically required to reaffirm him. Even if Harry’d bit his dick off, he’d probably feel obligated to thank Harry politely. 

Still, the words won’t stay inside Harry. “Did I- was that, like, _good_?” 

He tries to look away, not wanting to see the potential lie in Louis’ eyes, but Louis doesn’t let him, taking Harry’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and gazing into his eyes. 

Louis looks amused, a small grin playing at his lips. “I guess it _was_ your first time….” 

Louis lets the sentence hang for a moment before looking away. Harry’s stomach drops. Maybe Harry hasn’t done as well as he hopes and Louis _doesn’t_ feel compelled to put on a front. 

“I can learn to do better,” Harry whispers because he can. He’s always been a good student and Louis seems like the perfect teacher, if he’d be willing to put up with Harry’s clumsiness (for the right price, obviously). 

Louis’ fingers tighten briefly on Harry’s chin before he releases it. His lips twitch and then he’s laughing, loudly and from his belly. At first, Harry thinks Louis is laughing _at_ him, but before the shock of hurt has a chance to run through him, Louis leans forward to capture Harry’s mouth. 

Harry kisses back. Louis tastes _good_ still, like sex and happiness, and when he moves to kiss Harry’s neck and ears, he murmurs, “I haven’t had sex that good in months.” 

Which, if that’s true and Harry’s going to at least pretend that it is, Louis is a dick for letting Harry think otherwise for even a moment. Harry tries to pull away, but Louis doesn’t allow it. 

He tugs Harry back up and onto the bed and Harry follows, helpless. Louis’ fingers dance over his skin- back, shoulders, neck- and land in Harry’s hair with rough tug- exactly what Harry had wanted. 

Harry’s dick is fully hard again and he presses it to Louis’ hip. Louis moans, soft and urgent. 

Harry can’t help but say, “Glad to hear I’m better than a dildo and a video camera.” 

Louis lets go of him. “Now, Harold. Be nice.” 

Scooting up the bed, Harry says, “You be nice, first.” 

Louis chases him up the bed and wraps a hand around his cock. “As you wish.” 

Harry groans and lets his eyes fall shut. He feels a little tender- he’d honestly never gotten hard again so quickly in his life –but Louis is somehow able to be both firm and gentle at once. 

“Look at you. You’re so relaxed, so wanton, so _lazy_. Just lying back and letting me do all the work.” 

Harry opens his eyes expecting to see Louis’ smirk, but Louis is not smirking. His lips are pursed and he’s focused intently on Harry’s cock. Harry’s shoulders stiffen. He hopes Louis doesn’t _really_ feel that way. He’d _only just_ told Harry he’d enjoyed his blow job. 

But then Louis says, “Sorry, yeah. I don’t mind working. You’re pa- I mean, sorry.” 

The air is strange and rough between them and Harry’s not sure what to do to soften it. Finally, he lifts his hand to cover Louis’ which is still carefully stroking Harry. “It’s okay. I can help.” 

Louis smiles and speeds up his pace. Harry tries to keep his own touch light, but the faster Louis goes, the closer Harry gets to coming, the harder it is to concentrate on anything but the sensation building in his balls. 

Louis gaze is a little unnerving at first. Harry likes to be watched, yes. Fuck, he made it a game on the X Factor set- how many times could he get caught naked in a week. (It became more challenging as the weeks went on with fewer and fewer people in the house, but he’s been never one to back out when things get tough.) 

Still, he’s never had anyone watch him _come_ before, and he hadn’t imagined that when that happened, the person would be so beautiful, or so intent on him. Louis’ gaze remains locked firmly on Harry’s cock. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Louis murmurs. 

“Yeah?” Harry’s voice wavers and Louis’ eyes jerk up to meet Harry’s. 

The blue of them practically engulfs him, as his breath picks up to an uneven panting. His cock spasms in Louis hand squirting over both of them, with one forceful twitch and then another. 

“That’s it, love,” Louis says, not looking away from Harry’s face as he continues to stroke him, holding him as the aftershocks coursing through Harry’s body gradually weaken. 

Breathing roughly, Harry continues watching- he can’t look away- as Louis, careful to maintain eye contact, lifts his hand to his mouth and licks off a dollop of Harry’s come. 

“Still fruity.” He smacks his lips and goes in for another lick. Harry laughs, but it comes out choked. 

Louis relaxes beside him. He’s smiling and Harry wants to kiss him, but he can barely hold himself up. Louis must see something in his gaze, though, because he leans in press their mouths together. 

They exchange a number of small, soft kisses, which melt into one long sweet one. Louis breaks it by digging his teeth into Harry’s bottom lip and Harry pulls away laughing. 

He lays back and closes his eyes, very aware of the heat of Louis’ body beside him. He feels fantastic, wonderful. It’s the best night of his life, maybe, and he doesn’t want it to end. 

He wonders how Louis feels, if this was different than what he usually experiences with clients. Like, he had said he was a fan _and_ had seemed pleasantly surprised that Harry wanted to give _him_ a blow job. Harry likes the idea that they could be different, that he could be different to Louis, special. 

Louis’ breathing is even and his hand rests against Harry’s thigh, warm and dry. 

Harry wants to know what he’s thinking, whether or not he’d be willing to do this again, but he’s not sure how to ask. Linda had set it all up for tonight, after all. 

He thinks about what he’d say if Louis weren’t a hooker, if they’d met on Harry’s big night out or at G-A-Y. 

The silence stretches and lengthens until, suddenly, Louis sits up and slaps Harry’s thigh. The force of it stings and pulls Harry up and out of his melancholy thoughts. 

“Condoms, fucking hell,” Louis says. His shoulders are tense and Harry reaches up to rub at them. “We should have used condoms. That’s, like, the first rule of sex.” 

Harry squeezes the muscles, but they do not loosen and so he lets his nails dig in a bit. Harry says, “I assumed you’d worked that out with whoever made you sign stuff.” 

That’s a lie, but it sounds good. Harry hadn’t thought of condoms at all, not after Louis’d mentioned them at the start. 

“I’m clean,” he adds, heart rate tripping a bit. Maybe Louis’ thought of this because he’s not clean. He _is_ a hooker, after all. 

Louis nods and then says, “Me, too.” 

Harry lets out a breath. He must get tested regularly, professional precaution and all. 

But then Louis says, “Well, I mean I haven’t been tested or anything, but I’ve never done anything without condoms, not since my first boyfriend.” 

Harry lets his hands fall from Louis shoulders, brows knitting together. “So you have…”

“Look, I was fourteen and I haven’t had any problems since, but if it makes you feel better, I’ll get tested.” Suddenly, he shakes his head and the motion sets his hair flying _._ “Fuck, I think I signed something promising that I’d use protection.” 

Louis runs his hands through his hair, tugging it into a mess, and Harry feels as terrible as he looks. Not meeting Harry’s eyes, he says, “You won’t sue, will you?” 

“You probably wouldn’t consider fucking me again, if I sued you so probably not.” As soon as he says it, he regrets it. He’d meant to ask more sweetly for another go, pretend (at least for himself) that he was asking for a date. He’d been feeling so _affectionate_ toward Louis. He doesn’t want Louis to think he’s just, like, a hot dick and a tight arse to Harry because that’s not how it is (even if there might be a contract somewhere that says differently.) 

Louis grins, though, sweet at first, but quickly turning feral. “Eager for another go, then?” He reaches down and squeezes Harry’s soft, sensitive dick. It _hurts_ and Harry winces. 

Still, he says, “Maybe.” 

Louis’ eyes are dancing over Harry’s body like he’s won something fantastic and Harry’s pretty sure that he’s the one who’s won, so he winks and adds, “Like, you’re good at what you do.” 

Louis waggles his eyebrows and lies back in the bedsheets, visibly relaxing. He folds his hands across his bare stomach and asks, “How good?” 

The mock arrogance startles a laugh out of Harry and in response, Harry says, “Fair, I’d say. May need another go, actually, before I can really decide if I’d want this to continue indefinitely.” 

Louis rolls onto his side and brushes a curl off Harry’s forehead. He taps the tip of Harry’s nose with his finger and says, “Cheeky boy.” 

Harry nods. His limbs feel like they’re filling up with pop, sweet and fizzy, tingling from the top of his head to the ends of his toes. He hadn’t expected this to go so well. He hadn’t expected Louis to be so, well, _nice._

He’s too busy reveling in Louis’ affectionate smile to see Louis’ hand snake down, so he’s surprised when he’s groped again, this time a little more forcefully. 

He meets Louis’ eyes and Louis shakes his head. “As talented as I am, you are not going to be able to get that up again any time soon. We’ll need to schedule another meet-up.” 

Harry’s not so sure. Given another hour and Louis’ fantastic mouth and he’s sure he could make something happen. Still, he reasons, he does want to see Louis again. 

And, maybe, Louis wants to see him again, too. 

Harry grins at Louis for a long moment. 

“Okay,” he says. He’s not sure where he’d left his phone. He thinks his calendar is relatively up to date. But before he can take the thought any farther, Louis nods back and says, “I’ll arrange another time with Linda.” 

Harry’s shoulders slump. It’s not the he’d forgotten that Louis’ on payroll. It’s more that everything between them has seemed so easy, so organic, that he hates having the go-between. But Louis’ instinct is right. He probably should let Linda handle this. It’s certainly safer, legally, for both of them. 

Still, he doesn’t want to think about that now. He’s just done sex stuff with someone he’s genuinely attracted to for the very first time in his life and he wants to go back to pretending that everything’s normal and that Louis’ here because he wants to be, because he likes Harry and finds him attractive, not because he’s a professional being paid what Harry is sure is an exorbitant amount of money. 

He scoots his body a little closer to Louis and focuses his chest. “Can we…? Do you think…?” He’s not sure how to ask for what he wants without sounding pathetic. Cuddling is for children and lovers, not prostitutes and their johns. He knows that. 

But he still _wants._

Louis wraps an arm around him and runs his hand up and down his back. 

“Yeah, of course.” Louis murmurs the words against Harry’s cheek, and a rush of gratitude fills Harry. Louis understands. 

Humming to himself, Louis arranges them so that Harry’s head is cradled against his collarbone. Harry sighs against him: they fit like puzzle pieces. 

Louis’ hands begin to pet Harry’s hair, gently tangling and untangling his curls. And, soon, Harry’s asleep. 

~

It isn’t until after they kiss goodbye, quite heatedly to Harry’s delight, that Harry realizes that he’s slated to leave the country in a few days and that he’ll be gone for almost two weeks. He spends the car ride home hoping that somehow Linda and Louis will be able to work things out quickly and they’ll be able to see each other again _before_ he flies out. 

But he doesn’t want to push Linda; heaven knows she’s already at the end of her tether with him. Harry is frightened to ask how much this is costing the company- not, like in terms of Louis’ payment, Harry knows that’s coming out of his own earnings- but in terms of her and legal’s time and energy.

He hadn’t asked for Louis’ phone number. He’d thought about it. While he’d been brushing his teeth after his shower, he’d seen Louis pull a beat up flip-phone out his pocket and text furiously for a moment or two. 

He isn’t sure how that sort of thing works. Because he’s a business contact for Louis, paying for Louis’ time, would Louis even answer a friendly text or two? 

Harry doesn’t want to be some annoying, desperate john. Louis has Linda’s information and Linda has Louis’. That should be enough. 

~

Only, it’s not enough because now Harry has to wait two weeks to he see Louis again. 

Kind of. Louis’ scheduled to do a live show two nights after their first hook. Harry plans on watching it. Harry’s had to watch some late, after their live debuts, but he hasn’t missed one of Louis’ shows since he’d first discovered them. 

Harry strips down to his boxers, lays out on his bed, computer carefully positioned to his left, and waits for the show to begin. 

When Louis appears on screen, he seems so far away. Harry remembers the heat of skin, the way the tan, glow felt under his fingertips. Louis is as beautiful as Harry remembers him, but, now, this way, Harry can’t touch him. 

Worse, Harry can see the comments being posted in the live chat. Strangers typing lewd comments and even lewder suggestions. He’d been able to block them out before and pretend that Louis was doing the show just for him. 

So what if hardddd231 wants Louis to ‘ _cum on me fuck my ass’_? Harry didn’t _know_ either of them. It had all been a game of imaginary play. 

But he can’t do it now. Louis is a person. And Harry doesn’t want to share him with hardddd231 or anyone else. 

Not two minutes in, with Louis still fully clothed, Harry shuts his computer.

Painful as it is, Harry decides, waiting to actually see Louis in person will probablybe worth it. 

~

Harry has to tell the boys about Louis. He’d never be able to keep it a secret for long. He’d tries to bring it up casually, while they’re waiting to board the plane to LA, and he does a pretty good job of it, all told. 

Niall has just stolen Liam’s last three gummy bears right out of his hands. 

Watching him chew, loud and open-mouthed, Liam replies, “Suck a dick.” 

Harry coughs. “It’s not so bad.” 

“What?” Zayn’s eyes open. He’s lying on the floor at their feet and Harry thought he’d been sleeping. Apparently not. 

“Maybe, Niall would be lucky to suck a dick.” The words sound matter of fact. Not shaky and strange, like the whirring of thoughts inside Harry’s head. 

Liam snickers and kicks Niall’s shin. “Obviously.” 

Niall winces and, rubbing his shin, asks Harry, “How would you know? Finally turned in that V-card?” 

Harry clears his throat. 

All three boys turn to stare at him. Two of their handlers sit three seats away. They’re not looking, but Harry’s sure they’re listening. He’s not sure why that bothers him. Linda’s probably _told_ all the people in on the management team. 

He shrugs and chokes out a single, not-at-all casual, “Maybe.” 

He’d wanted to tell them the day he’d met Louis, beforehand, get a little moral support for his first real hookup. 

But, he’d been so nervous, nearly out of his mind with angst, changing outfits no less than seven times and watching and rewatching the same three minute introduction Louis’d filmed for the website. He could barely wrap his own mind around meeting the guy he’d been perving on for ages _for sex_. 

And for some reason, he didn’t want the other boys to know how he’d found Louis. He didn’t want to take the shit they’d surely give him if they discovered that Harry’d had a crush on a camboy for _months_ and had arranged for that very same camboy to become his personal rentboy. 

That seemed _way_ more embarrassing than having Linda find a random professional for a night or, hopefully, two or three or five nights. 

“Fuck, yeah,” Zayn says, sitting up. He’s beaming proudly at Harry. He turns to Liam, “You’re next.” 

Liam glares, “Fuck off. I’ve had lots of sex. I fuck girls all the time.”

Niall laughs and so does Harry. 

“You couldn’t find a vagina if someone drew you a map,” Zayn says, closing his eyes again. 

“I heard he squeezes girls tits like he’s trying to pop a zit,” Niall replies. 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Harry groans. “Niall that’s awful.” 

Through laughter, Niall manages to say, “Danielle was the one who said it first. So you probably want to take it up with Liam.” 

Liam’s gazes out onto the runway, arms folded across his chest, jaw set. “Fuck you guys.” 

~

Harry _likes_ to travel. No, he _loves_ it. New places have always fascinated him, the culture, the art, the buildings, the pace of life, the people, _especially_ the people. And Los Angeles is quickly becoming one of his favorite _new_ places because it is _filled_ to the brim with interesting, powerful people. 

He’s been looking forward to the band’s trip to meet with the American production and promotion team for _ages._ And he _does_ enjoy it, throwing himself into the work- the recording and the networking- as much as possible. 

Still, the whole time he’s thinking about _Louis_. He replays the fantastic blow job he’d been given over and over and he can’t help but think about Louis’ dick, now not only the image of it, but the feel and the weight of it. He thinks of it in bed, in the shower, sitting on the couch watching television, whenever he finds the time and privacy to wank. 

He almost tries again, to watch Louis’ next show, as a way to stem the obsessive thoughts, but the band is invited, all five of them, out to a party that night Louis’ supposed be on camera live. 

So instead of staring into Louis’ not-quite-as-blue-as-in-real-life eyes, Harry shakes hands and flashes his dimples, wooing everyone but the one person he’d most like to make fall for him. 

~

Harry calls Linda the day before they leave LA to fly home. He knows it sounds a little desperate, but he asks if maybe Louis could meet him at the airport, or, rather, at a hotel by the airport, when he first gets in. That kind of thing happens all the time in films –men fucking their mistresses before they go back to their wives, or, pathetically, in his case, their mothers. 

Linda _does_ laugh at him and he can feel his fist tightening around the phone as he wonders if he can figure out a way for some _other_ handler to be in charge of his sex life. 

But then she tells him that she and Louis have already arranged another meet-up for Wednesday in London. Harry _doesn’t_ want to wait that long, but he also doesn’t want to endure anymore of Linda’s judgment so he agrees. 

Harry prides himself on his self-control when he first sees Louis in hotel lobby. Louis’ back is turned and he’s leaning against the front counter, chatting to the clerk. He’s wearing a blue striped shirt and braces, trendy and camp in a way that sets Harry’s nerves fluttering. He’s not sure whether he wants them to be seen together or not. Linda called earlier to deliver a forceful reminder to be discreet because any kind of outing would have significant repercussions. 

Harry lets his eyes slide down Louis’ body, appreciating the snug fit of his trousers. He has the nicest arse Harry has ever seen, let alone had the pleasure of touching _._ That thought settles him a bit. He doesn’t care what Linda’s said. Harry _definitely_ wants to be seen with Louis. _He’s so beautiful_. 

Steeling himself, he walks right up beside Louis, rests his chin on Louis’ shoulder and wraps an arm around his waist. Into his ear, he murmurs, “We all checked in?” 

Louis stiffens at the touch and Harry panics. They’ve only met _once_ (well, _twice,_ technically), and maybe he’s assumed a bit too much familiarity, especially considering Louis, like, works for him. 

But, when he catches Harry’s eye, he relaxes, smiling and nodding. To the clerk, he says, “Nice chatting. Hope your son wins his match tomorrow.” 

As they walk toward the lift, Harry asks, “You know her?” 

Louis shrugs, “Now, I do.” 

“You’re very friendly,” Harry observes, letting his fingers tighten around Louis’ waist which he has yet to let go of. 

Louis pulls away, plastering himself against the opposite side of the elevator. “Only to people I like, Harold. You may or may not be one of those people.” 

Harry pouts. Even though he’s pretty sure that Louis is teasing, he’s a little uncomfortable. He wants Louis to be friendly with him, _to like him_. 

“We’ll have to wait and see I guess.” Louis taps a finger to his chin. 

Harry feels his eyes grow wider and his pout more pronounced. 

Louis crosses back toward Harry, a soft smile now playing at his lips. When he’s an inch away, his gaze flicks down to Harry’s mouth. Harry is all but certain he’s about to be kissed, but then there’s ding and they’ve arrived on their floor. 

Louis tangles their fingers together as they make their way to the room, managing to dig the keycard out of his pocket, insert it in the door and turn the handle, all one-handed. Harry’s very impressed. Louis is _so_ coordinated. 

To Harry’s disappointment, Louis lets go of Harry’s hand as soon as they’re inside and hops up to sit cross-legged on the bed. He gestures for Harry to sit across from him. 

Harry does so, mimicking the position, but sitting close enough that their knees press together. He’s not interested in wasting time, so he also begins unbuttoning his top. Louis reaches out to place an hand over his, stopping him. 

“Hold on, Harry,” he says. “We need to talk first.” 

Harry tries not to pout, but he knows it’s a poor effort. “I’ve missed _you._ ” 

He shouldn’t be able to miss someone he’s only met once, but it’s true and Harry doesn’t appreciate the way Louis rolls his eyes in response. 

“I’m _sure_ you’ve seen me.” 

Of course, Harry’s hasn’t seen him. Harry frowns. “What? I-” 

Harry realizes Louis is talking about his shows. He’d assumed that Harry’d been watching these last couple of weeks, which makes sense. That’s how Harry’d found him in the first place. “No, I haven’t. I didn’t watch.” 

Louis’ brow furrow. “I thought-“

Harry cuts him off. “I like you better in person.” It’s true and, embarrassing as it might be to say that to one’s hooker in hindsight, Harry’s happy he does because Louis flushes and his eyes flick down. It’s almost as though _he’s_ embarrassed (maybe secondhand, for Harry?), but Harry’s too distracted by the fluttering of his _long_ eyelashes to ponder it very long. 

Louis clears his throat and then meets Harry’s gaze again. He’s smiling, now, and seeing it gives Harry the courage to wink at him and returns to his buttons. This time, Louis doesn’t stop him, but he does say, “I think we should talk about what you want to do, like what you want out of this, like, _relationship_?” 

Harry pauses and chews his lip. “It’s like I said last time. I want experience, to learn how to do things.” It’s not true, or, well, it’s not the entire truth. He’d like a _lot_ more than that. Candlelight dinner. Cuddles. Sweet words. _Romance._

Louis nods. “What kinds of things do you want to learn? We’ve done blowjobs.” 

Harry shakes his head. “No. I definitely need more work there. You said yourself. Honestly-” 

He stops. He’s not sure how much he should say. He doesn’t want to seem too desperate. 

He goes for it anyway. He’s paying Louis, after all. “I mean, I’d like to try _everything,_ I think.” 

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Everything. Great. Helpful. Very specific, you are.” 

Harry shrugs off his shirt and tries to calm the pounding of his heart with a couple of deep breaths. He really doesn’t want to fuck this up. “We don’t have to do something, like, if there’s stuff you don’t really like to do.” 

Louis laughs. “I wasn’t thinking that. There’s very little I wouldn’t try with you. It’s just that the options are kind of limitless. I can be very… creative.” 

Harry waggles his eyebrows. “Creative. That I would like to see.” 

“So more blowjobs, you said?” 

Harry nods. He’s already hard; his arousal had been building since he’d first seen Louis in the lobby. He begins to unbutton his jeans. 

Louis swats his hand away with a little slap. “Quit that.” 

Harry slouches. “Why?” 

Louis pulls his own shirt over his head revealing his chest, smooth and perfect and surprisingly bronzed. Harry wants to ask if he’s spent some time on the beach. 

“You’ll see why,” Louis says. 

“Okay.” The word is soft. Only a breath. Harry trusts Louis. 

Louis begins to murmur quiet instructions. 

“Lay down,” he tells Harry. “Hands at your sides.” 

His voice is softer, less aggressive than in his videos, but equally as confident and Harry eagerly obeys, stretching out on the bed beside him. 

Louis eyes him up and down before lying down himself, his feet at Harry’s head vice versa. Harry reaches out to run a finger over the bottom of Louis foot causing him to shriek and kick. His voice is a little pitchy when he says, “Do not do _that_. I said to keep your hands at your sides.” 

Harry laughs. “You said ‘creative.’ I thought you might be into the whole foot thing.” 

Louis rolls his eyes and then scoots until he’s eye level with Harry’s package. He palms it and says, “This doesn’t look like a foot to me.” 

Harry gasps, closing his eyes to let the sensation really sink in. When he opens them again he realizes something very important: he’s at a level with Louis’ cock, too. 

The space is tight between them; Louis pressed them very close together. But Harry manages to worm his hand into the middle and begins to unbutton Louis’ trousers. 

“Now, Harold.” Louis’ tone is light, but firm, scolding. 

He whimpers. How does Louis expect him to keep his hands at his sides when his dick is _right there_. Surely, Louis wants Harry to pop his buttons and set him free. Harry assumes they’re about to suck each other off at the same time. He’s seen this sort of thing before on porn. He’s always wanted to try. 

Louis is a genius. Except Harry needs his hands for all that. 

“Use your mouth,” Louis says. 

Harry sits up a bit so he can look at him. “My mouth?” 

Louis nods and then leans forward to tug down Harry’s zip with his own teeth. He’s close enough that Harry can feel the heat of his breath through the cotton fabric. It’s funny, but it’s also sexy. Harry didn’t know he could feel both things at once, and definitely not this intensely. 

Louis says, “Go on, then,” and nods down toward where his cock has begun to tent his trousers. Harry’s already hard. 

Harry grins, liking the evidence that, whatever it is between them _professionally_ , Louis’ hot for him. Louis might even find him attractive. Probably even _wants_ him. 

Harry licks his lips and then noses at Louis’ fly. He hasn’t got a zip, like Harry. Instead, Harry has to reckon with five white buttons. A challenge. Harry grins. Luckily, he’s always had a clever mouth; he’s practiced at unwrapping all sorts of sweets with his tongue. 

He undoes the first button easily and then the second. When he starts at the third, the task becomes more difficult still because Louis’ (very wet) lips and (very strong) tongue begin to pull Harry’s cock loose from his pants. 

Harry pauses and allows himself to enjoy the feel Louis’ mouth around him. It’s--- _fuck_. It’s better than the best thing he’s ever felt. But then he stops. 

Harry whines. 

Lips moving against Harry’s most sensitive skin, Louis says, “Well, get to it.” 

Harry remembers his own task and moans. “I can’t concentrate.” 

He feels Louis’ laugh vibrate up his dick and through his balls. “I can stop,” he offers. 

Harry answers by returning to the buttons with renewed vigor. Freeing Louis’ cock turns out to be easier than he anticipates because Louis is not wearing any underwear. 

It’s very hooker-ish. Harry’s pleased laughter cuts off when Louis swallows him down and the sound turns into more of choked whine. 

Harry follows in kind, wrapping his mouth around the side of Louis’ cock and lickingdown and around to take in the head of Louis’ dick. The whole of it slides in too quickly and Harry coughs around it. 

Louis throat jumps around him as he releases a breath and then pulls off. “ _Teeth_ ,” he says. 

Harry winces because he hadn’t meant to use his teeth; he _does_ know better. He’d read up on it a bit, like, instead of watching _Louis,_ he’d watched several, sort of, instructional porn videos about blow jobs and fingering. 

He’s saving the fucking one for later and he’s curious, and he’s interested but a little uncertain about the rimming one. It occurs to him that maybe this is what Louis had meant for him to share earlier- his various curiosities and interests. But, like, saying it out loud seemed so unsexy. 

And he’d been quite eager to get to the actual sex part. 

But also, the instructional videos _had_ been helpful. Now that he’s got a dick in his mouth, knowing what to do makes the situation a little more sexy than it had been last time. 

He picks up the pace of his bobbing head and he can tell that Louis likes it because his stomach sort of tenses and his mouth becomes a little looser around Harry. 

The sense of challenge that Harry’d felt earlier returns. He wonders if he could beat Louis _,_ if he could get Louis off before Louis gets him off. The idea thrills Harry and sends his arousal spiking, a distinct disadvantage to add to his inexperience. 

Louis is supposed to be a professional. Getting Harry off is his job and, like, if Harry can get him off first, like. Maybe. 

Maybe things would feel different between them. Maybe they’d be more like equals. 

Harry rolls his tongue and relaxes his throat, testing each and every technique he’s ever heard, trying his hardest to focus on how Louis responds to each one and to catalogue it. 

It should be more difficult than it is, what with Louis’ mouth where it is. However, Louis appears to have given up, Harry’s cock slipping free from his lips. He pants wetly against the side of Harry’s cock and thrusts his own cock weakly into Harry’s mouth. He’s grunting, too, his volume increasing slightly with each movement of his hips. 

He comes with a half-shout and the noise catches Harry as off guard as the semen. He sputters a bit, pulling away. He tries not to feel too put out about his instinctive reaction, pushing away the voice of the guy in the video who’dsaid it was always better to swallow. 

Instead, he focuses on the fact that Louis _has_ come first. Harry’d made him come first. And that’s gratifying. 

Louis doesn’t take long to recover, laying still and panting for only a moment, before he’s back at it with Harry’s dick, taking Harry far deeper than Harry’d managed and moaning around him. The sound vibrates up through his balls and they tighten nearly immediately. 

Louis repeats the sound and Harry’s hips cant, forcing him deeper into Louis’ mouth. 

It’s embarrassing, then, how quickly Harry comes. He almost doesn’t have time to prepare himself. He’s been on the edge for so long and Louis _is_ really, _really_ good.

Louis swallows, holding Harry tightly in his mouth until the last spurts of come have finished pulsing out of him. 

Once he’s finished, Louis twists around moves up the bed so that they’re facing each other once again. Harry lets his breathing calm down and then he says, “Thanks.” 

Louis laughs. “So polite.” 

“But you’re not, are you?” Harry returns causing Louis to laugh harder but only for a moment before his face softens. 

He reaches up and touches Harry’s cheek. “I can be polite, for you, Harold.” 

Harry turns his face to kiss Louis’ fingers. “I don’t mind you when you’re less than polite. Just, like, don’t be mean, I guess.” 

“’Don’t be mean.’ What kind of shit pillow talk is that?” Louis raises an eyebrow and Harry recognizes the irony in the statement and they both begin to laugh. 

Behind Louis he can see the clock. It’s only eight. He’s not sure how long Louis’ booked, but the last time they’d had all night. Testing the waters, he asks, “Do you want to go to dinner?” 

~

They have dinner at the same restaurant as before, sat in the same booth as before, and the familiarity, the ritual of it pleases Harry. 

Louis doesn’t seem nearly as uncomfortable as he did before, either. No, after they’ve ordered, which is a bit of an uncomfortable experiences as neither of them is entirely sure how to pronounce half of the words on the menu, Louis becomes positively chatty. 

He starts in with a story about his sisters and how they _always_ are allowed control of the television. Louis’ mum apparently reasons that Louis can watch his programming after they’ve gone to bed, which doesn’t work if Louis wants to go to bed as well. So he’s forced to sleep in and stay up late. 

Harry begins to realize that Louis still lives at home with said mum and sisters. He wants to ask about it because that seems an unlikely situation for a regular nineteen year old, especially one as smart and handsome and _capable_ as Louis. 

It also doesn’t seem to quite well fit with Harry’s idea of the life of a high-end prostitute. Shouldn’t someone with famous clients be living in a fancy flat in London? 

And what about his film shoots? Where does his family go when he’s got a show to film? What if his sister walked in on him when he was naked with dildo in his arse and it got caught on live webcam and hundreds maybe thousands of people around the world saw it. 

How utterly mortifying for _everyone_. 

Louis must see the confusion on Harry’s face because he questions Harry’s thoughts and, forgoing embarrassment, Harry shares. 

Louis’ eyes widen and for a moment Harry thinks he may never have considered this before. But then he shakes his head and says, “Harold, people put locks on their doors for a reason. Jesus Christ.” 

“But what if they _hear_ you?” Harry presses because, “You can be _very_ loud.” 

Louis shifts in his seat uncomfortably and takes a sip of wine. “I dunno. I’m in the basement, aren’t I?” 

Harry bites back a smile. “Sounds cozy.” 

Louis huffs out a breath. “It is _very_ cozy.” He pauses. “Maybe too cozy. My stepdad only finished a very small bit of the basement before he left and so my room is tiny and it floods a couple of times every winter. Sewage. Very nasty. Keeps me from throwing my clothes on the floor, though, I suppose.” 

“Sounds _miserable,”_ Harry amends. 

“Where do you live then, popstar?” Louis asks, taking an even sip of his wine. 

“With the other boys,” Harry explains. He does, too, in London. They all live in the same complex and Harry invites them over for dinner fairly often. They play footie together in the courtyard sometimes on their free days, not that any of them are any good. 

“But do they live _with_ you?” Louis asks, as if the distinction is important. It isn’t not to Harry. 

“Not exactly. I like having my own space.” 

“Lone-ly,” Louis singsongs. “Lonely, lonely, lonely.” 

“It isn’t,” Harry insists, even though, sometimes it is, especially when Liam’s got Danielle over and Zayn’s at home with his mum and his cousins and Niall’s off with his friends at the pub doing Irish things. They sometimes forget Harry, and Harry is forced to watch hours and hours of terrible television in bed all by himself. 

The PR people, taken by his charm, are starting to set him up with some friends and he quite likes them, but they’re not _his_ people, not yet, and they’re certainly not as close as family. 

“You think living at home with your mum is better?” Harry thinks this would not be true for him. He loves his mum, but she has _rules_ and she’s _nosy_. 

“My mum’s my best friend,” Louis says. 

“Really?” Harry asks, surprised. And then, before he can think about the implications, he adds, “I’d have to see that to believe it.” 

Luckily, Louis is unfazed. “Anytime you want to stop by. She’d like you loads, I think. I mean, she already does, from the X Factor.” 

Harry beams at him. This isn’t a normal thing for one’s prostitute to say. Harry knows that but- 

But he thinks that this arrangement is working out really, _really_ well. He’s learning about sex and about dating, all the while spending time with a beautiful man. 

A beautiful man who likes him and wants him to meet his mother. 

It’s practically perfect. 

They return to the hotel after dinner and Harry’s practically bursting with excitement for round two. He wonders what they might do this time, whether it’ll be another exchange of blow jobs or something else. 

Harry doesn’t want to call the driver again and it’s a warm night, midsummer sun just setting and, thus, ideal for a walk. 

Louis is chattering again, telling stories about his mates and his footie team. He insists that he’s shit at it, but that he loves to play more than almost anything else. Harry’s a little disappointed that they’re walking as he shares, because Louis’ so lovely, so animated, when speaking about something he loves. Harry wants to be able to stare at him, but instead he has to keep watch where he’s going. 

They’re about two blocks away from the hotel when he hears his name being shouted from behind them. He sees two girls, a few years younger than them, probably, standing in a shop door and waves. 

They shout again. And again. Harry tries to ignore them, but they’ve already interrupted Louis’ train of thought. 

Louis stops talking and walking, turning instead to gape over his shoulder. The girls are now chasing behind them and when they catch up, mostly out of breath, they’re laughing. 

“Harry!” the first says. “We voted for you every week on the X Factor!” 

“Thank you,” Harry says, carefully. He’s never quite certain how to respond to this type of enthusiasm. 

“Well, I didn’t,” Louis tells him. 

The girls are still laughing and playing with the ends of their hair. He’s not sure what they’re expecting and he mostly wants them to leave so that he can return to his evening of sex and romance with Louis.

The girls exchange a long look and finally the taller one rolls her eyes and says to Louis, “That’s a rude thing to say to Harry. Who’re you?” 

“Didn’t think One Direction was the best, did I?” Louis shoots back. 

Harry thinks that _is_ pretty rude. But Harry also thinks it’s a lie. He really likes to think that Louis was watching, that Louis’d seen him perform multiple times, that Louis might have like, _liked_ him, early on- even if he didn’t _like_ him nearly as much as these girls. 

The second girl speaks up, “There were some other very, talented acts on that Season and One Direction _did_ only come in third.” 

Louis stiffens. “You don’t sound like very much of a fan at all. One Direction’ll out last all those fuckers, you’ll see.” 

Both girls balk at his change of tone. 

Louis scowls at them. “Run along, we’ve got places to be. Harry hasn’t got time for your insults.” 

“What?” The first girl asks, but Louis doesn’t answer. He grabs Harry’s arm and pulls him in the direction of the hotel. 

Trying not to laugh, Harry calls over his shoulder, “Bye!” 

Turning to Louis, he says, “I’ve been given very explicit instructions not to be rude to fans like that. As long as they’re polite, I like to be nice to them.” 

Louis frowns, tightens his fingers around Harry’s arm, and picks up his pace. “They weren’t being polite. That girl was talking shit about One Direction.” 

Harry hurries to keep up with him, tripping a little over his feet. “You were talking shit about One Direction, first. She was just agreeing with you.” 

Louis coughs and releases him. “Well, she shouldn’t have. She was wrong, too. You know that, right? One Direction is going to be the most successful of that season’s acts. Mostly because of you. You’re so damn talented.”

The words come out in a rush, almost too quickly for Harry to catalogue all of them. He stops in his tracks and beams at the back of Louis’ head. 

Louis turns around and Harry tries to hide his happiness, but it’s impossible. Louis sees. He smiles, too. 

“Come on, Harold,” he cajoles. “I want to teach you more about hand jobs.” 

Harry rushes to catch up. “Isn’t that, like, a step _behind_ blow jobs?” 

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Who said there were steps? An orgasm is an orgasm is an orgasm.” He freezes and Harry realizes that they’re right outside of the hotel. Meeting Harry’s eyes, Louis continues, “Unless, that is, you want something different.” 

Harry bites his lip and reaches around him to open the door. “No, hand jobs sound fun.” 

“Fun, they are, Harry, fun, they are.” 

~

They’re alone in the lift and Louis’ uses the privacy to grope Harry through his trousers. Well, perhaps grope isn’t the right word for it. Louis lays a hand over Harry’s package, which begins to take an interest _immediately_ , and just keeps it there, still and present. 

Harry tries to meet Louis’ eyes, but Louis is focused on his phone. He’s fucking _texting_ someone while he’s got his hand over Harry’s dick _in public_. 

Harry resists the urge to knock the phone out of his hands. Instead, he reaches down and takes hold of Louis’ dick. He makes sure that his grip is decidedly more _firm_ than Louis’ and he’s gratified to feel Louis harden slowly in his hand. 

The doors of the lift open on their floor and both boys let go. Harry’s breathing is coming quickly already. 

Harry’s masturbated practically every day of his life since he first discovered how. He knows what a hand feels like on his dick and he knows that he likes it. He’s certain it will be much better when it’s someone else’s hand beside his own. 

Anyway, Louis had wanked him the last time they’d been together, too. So, even though he’d been admittedly exhausted and desperate and _sore_ at the time, he _has_ done this before. 

It shouldn’t be so exciting that he’s throwing off his clothes and then tearing into Louis’. But, for some reason, it is. 

Louis’ passive, watching him unbutton his trousers for the second time that evening, with a small, pleased smile. Harry drops to his knees as he pulls the trousers down Louis’ legs, leaning forward to press a soft kiss Louis’ dick which sits, semi-hard, right in front of his nose. 

It twitches. 

“No, this time, Harry, you can _only_ use your hands.” 

Harry looks up him and then lays another kiss on the hot head of his dick. “Your mouth is saying one thing, your cock is saying another.” 

Louis shakes his head and tugs at the tops of Harry’s arms, pulling him up. Harry resists at first, but relents when Louis’ face turns hard. He doesn’t want to upset Louis, after all, and he’s not _opposed_ to hand jobs. 

He expects Louis to lead him to the bed, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls Harry into the bathroom. Nodding at the mirror, Louis says, “I want you to see how gorgeous you look when you come.” 

Harry fishmouths. Louis is the gorgeous one. Harry’s just, he’s just the baby with the dimples and the curls. Louis is… curvy and tan, smooth skinned, with a big dick and the sort of confidence Harry’s always been desperate for. 

His eyelashes are long and his lips are the perfect color pink. They’re not small either and right now they are wet and moving closer and closer, until the two of them are _kissing._

Louis hands slide up into Harry’s hair and his nails dig into Harry’s scalp. It’s a new favorite sensation of Harry’s and he moans at the feel of it, closing his eyes. 

Louis’ mouth moves to Harry’s neck beginning to suck and lick, while his hands keep at it, massaging. Each tug at his hair feels like a tug at his dick and each nerve nipped in his neck seems to connect with a nerve in his balls and without one skin to skin touch Harry finds himself fully hard. He reaches down to palm himself, hoping that the sensation will satisfy, just for a moment. 

Louis doesn’t stop him, but he does wrap his fingers around Harry’s wrist and murmur into his ear, “Babe, open your eyes.” 

Harry obeys and watches as Louis rearranges them in the mirror so that they’re both facing it, Harry’s back pressed to Louis’ front. 

The skin on at his throat where Louis’ been sucking is pink and blotchy and Harry thinks it’s likely that he’ll have a bruise to explain in the near future. His lips, too, are pinker than usual and his cock stands erect and prouder and larger than he thinks of it, pointing up at them in the reflection. 

Louis’ reaches his hand around Harry’s body to hold Harry’s cock in his fist. Harry’s knees tremble a bit and he stiffens, trying to maintain a little dignity, even though his body wants to plaster itself against Louis. 

Louis catches on. “Relax,” he murmurs into Harry’s ear. “Lean on me.” 

Harry does, and the movement brings them closer together, so close that Louis’ dick, as hard as Harry’s own, slides between the crack of his arse. Louis lets go of Harry’s cock and, driving them closer together still, grabs a bottle of lotion off the counter. He uncorks it, dumping a dollop into his palm. 

“Not quite lube,” he murmurs. “But it’ll work for the this.” 

He grabs Harry’s cock for the second time, slathering it up. The lotion is cool and not entirely pleasant, but the sensation of Louis’ mouth at his ear and cock at his arse keeps him hard and eager. 

Without warning, Louis fist closes around him again, firmly, and _squeezes_. 

Harry keens and then closes his eyes, wincing a bit in embarrassment. He doesn’t want to be making embarrassing stupid noises, he wants to be making _sexy_ noises. He doesn’t want to _lose_ control, or at least, if he does lose control, he wants it to be in a sensual, mature way, not in some sort of weird animal way. 

But, as Louis’ hand picks up speed, he realizes he probably doesn’t have much of a choice because it feels so good. 

It’s so much, Louis’ breath on his neck, the friction on his cock, the heat of Louis at his back, that when Louis’ other hand moves down to palm Harry’s balls, he has to close his eyes and force himself not to come. 

He’s not ready, not yet. When he’s under control again, he opens his eyes and immediately meets Louis’ blue gaze in the mirror. 

Louis hand moves from Harry’s balls to Harry’s hip, pulling tight, _tight_ close so that his dick is rutting in time with his hand. 

Harry realizes he can feel the brush of Louis’ cockhead between his cheeks, so _so_ close to his hole. He wants Louis to fuck him. They’re so close. A little bit of lube and a hard push. 

Harry bites out a, “Fuck me. Please, Louis.” 

If Harry was worried earlier about the sound of his moans, he’s got nothing on the noises that are coming out of Louis. What starts as whimper escalates into full out groaning. 

The rasp of it sends Harry over the edge, spurting into Louis’ fist. 

The rhythm of Louis’ thrusts turns staccato and uneven. He must be close to coming as well, which is wild because Harry hasn’t even got a hand on him. 

“Are you…?” Harry begins to ask. He doesn’t finish the question because he has his answer. Louis’ come dripping down from the crack of his ass and onto his thighs. 

“Good?” he asks. 

“Good,” Louis confirms, turning Harry in his arms to kiss him. It’s a sweet kiss, deep without being heated, thorough without being lengthy.

When he pulls away, Louis looks more uncertain than ever. “For you, too?” he asks and Harry’s confusion must show on his face because then he clarifies. “For a hand job, that was alright?” 

Harry chokes out a broken little laugh and kisses Louis again. This time, when he’s finished, he sets their foreheads together and nods, brushing together their noses. “Yeah. It was alright. Better than alright.” 

!

The pigeon is watching him. Its beady little eyes bore into him and he’s suddenly very aware of the fake story he’d given his mum regarding his whereabouts. He remembers learning that pigeons were used as spies in World War II and he wonders if this little dude has been sent by his mum for recon. Seems plausible. 

Louis flips through his contacts, thumb hovering over Harry’s name. It’s pathetic, is what it is. Harry’d given him his number, yes, but he’d specifically stated that it was for, “Connecting about meeting up, or, like, meeting ahead, or whatever.” 

They’d exchanged numbers as business contacts, pure and simple. Texting Harry about the pigeon outside the coffee shop doesn’t fall within those parameters. 

But Louis really, _really_ wants to text him about that pigeon. Last time they’d been together, they’d stayed up almost the whole night and somewhere around 3am Harry’d whispered into Louis’ chest that he had no interest in birds at all. 

Louis’d pretended to misunderstand and a great debate ensued between them about wings and feathers and pointy beaks. Louis finds birds fascinating himself- too clever and nefarious to be trusted, though. 

Louis’ waiting for his mum to pick him up from the coffee shop where he’s ‘picked up a shift,’ to stop her from demanding to know what he does with his time and where he’s getting all his extra cash. 

Because he has suddenly found himself with _a lot_ of extra cash. 

He’s also told her he has a boyfriend in London, an explanation for his increasingly frequent overnight visits. He looks at Harry’s name in his phone. He wishes he’d taken a photo to go with it, but he hadn’t dared. It’s against the terms of his contract. 

Because _,_ he tells himself firmly, he does not have a boyfriend. He has a _client_. Who pays him to do a job. Their relationship is contractual. 

As his mum pulls up outside the shop, he slips his phone into his pocket. He pushes through the door with his shoulder and a little bell tinkles his goodbye. He feels a buzz against his ass. 

“How was work? Did you spill hot coffee on anyone today?” She sniffs. “You always smell so good after your shifts. I swear there’s enough caffeine on you to give me a little pick me up.” 

He hands her the coffee he’d purchased for her a couple minutes earlier and she coos. “If that doesn’t. This’ll do the trick.” 

Whoever’s texting him will have to wait. 

~

He and his mum wander through the grocery store, moving through the aisles slowly, chatting about Louis’ fictional coworkers and killing time until the girls need to be picked up from school. 

He puts dinner on, while his mum helps the girls with their homework, the whole lot of them talking on and off about teachers and classmates and impossible math assignments. 

So it’s not until much later that Louis remembers the text. 

It’s short, just a few words: _I have an idea. Call me_

And it’s from Harry. 

They haven’t seen each other in four days, not that Louis’d been counting, and Linda hasn’t yet reached out to set another date. 

Their last morning together, sunlight streaming into the room through open windows, Harry’d pulled the covers up to his chin and trained his eyes on the ceiling to murmur, “We have some trips coming up. To LA and, um, Sweden, I think.” 

Louis’d froze, trousers halfway up his thighs. How long would Harry be away? Would he want to see Louis when came back? Was this his way of breaking things off? 

“Okay,” he’d replied. 

Harry’d rolled over to look at him. “I wish I didn’t have you leave you behind.” 

Louis’d released a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been hold and finished putting on his trousers. Clearing his throat, he’d said, “Well, we can’t all be international popstars.” 

And that’d been the end of it. 

But now Harry’s texted him _with an idea_. And he wants Louis to call him. 

He texts, _now_? and finds himself wishing he’d looked at Harry’s text sooner and called right away. What if Harry’s idea was time sensitive? 

Harry’s name comes up on the screen a moment before the ringing begins. Louis answers immediately. 

“Harold, what can I do for you?” He sounds overly formal, he knows. It’s necessary to put on the front because all his instincts are pushing him towards fondness and _affection_. Which would be, he reminds himself, utterly out of place. 

Harry laughs as though Louis’ made a joke and, well, he supposes he sort of has. He’s not nearly so posh as that and Harry knows it. 

“Well?” He prompts through Harry’s laughter which has now gone on an inappropriately long period of time. He’s not _that_ funny. 

Through continued giggles, Harry says, “Would you like to go to a concert- not tomorrow, but the next day?” 

Louis considers this. He _loves_ concerts and he’d been thinking earlier about how he’d like to see Harry again before he left the country- for professional reasons, of course. He can’t have his clients forgetting him. 

Well, his client, that is. His one and only client. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “That sounds fun.” 

Harry lets out an audible breath. “Great. Okay. Awesome.” 

“What concert?” Louis asks, a little late. He’s not really into the indie scene because he always feels like everyone there thinks they’re better than he is and Harry’s playlists are filled with artists he’s never heard of using instruments he didn’t even know existed. 

“Um,” Harry hedges and Louis _knows_ it’s something embarrassing. He hasn’t really been keeping up with who’s going to be in town when so he can’t jump the gun and say it for Harry, but he can wait, _gleefully_. Harry finally says, “Take That.” 

_Yes_. 

“Yes!” God, Louis is so embarrassing and uncool. He’d _meant_ to tease Harry, but he’d been tripped up by his own excitement. 

He recovers by overhyping his own hype, “I’ve always wanted to see them. This is the best day of my life. I can’t believe you’re offering me this once in a lifetime opportunity. Take That?! Really?! I have _so_ many posters of them? Do you think you could get me backstage to have them signed? I thought they’d broken up forever and I’d never be able to see them for my--.” 

“Fuck off,” Harry cuts him off. “You don’t _have_ to go.” 

Louis can’t help it. Harry’s bitchiness is _hilarious_ and Louis cracks up. 

“Louis,” Harry whines. “Obviously, this was a terrible idea. You’re uninvited.”

Louis’ laughter cuts off abruptly. “No, no, I’m just fucking with you. I want to go. They’re playing in Manchester?” 

“No,” Harry says, suddenly more cautious. “In London.” 

Louis’ supposed to take his sisters to their football match after school that day, but he can probably find another parent to cover. God knows he’s hauled more than his fair share of friends and teammates around over the last couple of years. 

Louis hums, thinking it through. 

Harry rushes to say, “So I’ll cover your transportation, your train ticket, I mean, and I’ll pick you up at the station. And then we can go to dinner, which of course, I’ll cover. And I’ve already gotten you a ticket. I know you live in Doncaster, so, like, either you can stay at mine or we can get you a hotel. We don’t need to like do sex stuff, if you don’t want- like this is a lot to ask, anyway. And you can talk to Linda about the other payment, like for your time. I don’t know.” 

Harry’s stumbling over his words, clearly embarrassed to be talking about the business end of their arrangement. Louis latches on to the most important bit, “Styles, you’re telling me that you’re going to see your hooker for what could be the last time in two or three weeks, but it’s okay if we don’t have sex.” 

“I mean,” Harry replies, slowly. “I mean, I’d like you to fuck me, but I don’t want to, like, _push_.” 

Louis coughs, a clear image of his dick sliding between Harry’s pert cheeks popping up before him. _Fuck_. 

“Louis?” Harry questions. Louis can he hear the smirk in his voice. The fucker knows _exactly_ what he’d said and how it would affect louis. 

“Eager for a fucking? My thick dick thrusting into you? You’ve never done that before, have you? I bet you’d be so tight for me.” 

Harry groans, but doesn’t reply. Louis imagines him running a hand over the bulge that’s _definitely_ appeared in his trousers. 

“Are you thinking about that, me inside of you? Has it made your beautiful cock hard? ” Louis’ hard, too. He loves talking dirty. It’s what started him on the whole camboy-thing. 

And _damn_ if it isn’t even more fun with Harry’s rough breathing on the other end of the line, with the image of Harry’s hand covering the line of his erection fresh and real. 

“Louis.” Harry’s voice is thick and rasping. “Yeah. I want- _fuck_.” 

Louis hears the clanging of his belt being undone and rustle of his trousers going down. Louis follows suit. He hadn’t plannedon getting off with Harry tonight. He’d been too curious about the implications of Harry’s message to plan much of anything, at all.

But fuck if he isn’t up for it. Harry lets out another small moan. He’s so _sensitive_. 

“Harry? How are you doing over there?” Louis’ voice comes out low and rich, the tone he uses in his vids. 

There’s a long silence and Louis imagines Harry hands reaching down to tug at his balls, maybe even dance over his hole. 

Then, Harry says, voice still rough, “So, like, I don’t want to _use_ you without like,….” He pauses. “I’m going to hang up, okay?” 

“What?” Louis asks, confused. “What _are_ you talking about?” 

Harry groans. Louis can hear the shift of his bedclothes and the creak of his mattress. “I’m not going to take advantage,” he explains. “Thank you, Louis, sleep well.” 

The phone clicks off. Louis looks down at his own tented trousers and tries to stave off his disappointment. He’s not sure what happened. 

~

Louis does not call Linda about arrangements for the concert. Harry’d offered up his apartment for Louis to stay overnight and Louis decides to give into temptation and take him up on it. 

He’s embarrassingly, _desperately_ curious about Harry- his friends, his family, his likes and dislikes, how he spends his days off- and he suspects Harry’s home will offer up some answers. 

Harry will pay for his train ticket and his dinner, as well as his ticket to the concert Louis. It’s adequate compensation, in Louis’ mind.

Actually, Louis feels a little guilty accepting any compensation at all. He wants to go. He _likes_ Harry. Asking to be paid to spend time with him feels strange, like he’s cheating at life. 

Through text they plan to meet at the train station. Harry will be waiting for him in a cab that will take them to the show. It isn’t until he’s stepping off the train that he realizes this will mean that he’s taking his small suitcase to the concert. 

He almost hadn’t brought anything at all, but, as he was walking out the door his mum had given him shit about not brushing his teeth and still expecting his new ‘boyfriend’ to put out. With a roll of his eyes, he’d thrown together a change of clothes, a toothbrush, a couple condoms, and a tube of expensive-ass lube. (He’d bought the latter a few days back, thinking that, for what Harry was paying him, he deserved luxury during his first thorough finger fucking.) 

He stands on the street, bag thrown over his shoulder, feeling like exactly what he is, a cheap _twink_ , in bright, white pants and a red polo and waits for Harry to arrive. He pulls out his phone to see that the battery is almost dead _._ Of course, he remembered the lube, but forgot his charger. 

He decides a text to Harry is worth the extra battery. _im here where r u_

Harry replies immediately with a series of sad-face emojis. _on our way. zayn was sleeping._

Louis reads the text once, twice, three times. It sounds like Harry is not alone. It _sounds_ like, at the very least, he’s bringing _Zayn,_ as in _Zayn_ from One Direction, with him on their date. 

Louis thinks about how _cool_ and _expensive_ Zayn always looks. He casts his gaze down at his feet and suddenly the Toms on his feet, though they’d felt like _such_ a splurge when he’d purchased them, seem stupid and plain. 

Like, he knows Harry is a famous singer, too, but Louis’ beginning to get used to the idea of him as a real person, and, well, at least he dresses like a normal bro, not like a _fucking model_. 

Louis turns off his phone. If he acts like it’s already died, he can pretend he hasn’t received Harry’s text. Anyway, he doesn’t want Zayn (or any of Harry’s other rich and famous friends) to see it. He’s been meaning to buy something nicer, maybe even a new iPhone. He can probably afford it now, especially if Harry keeps hiring him. 

He’s just managed to shove the old thing to the bottom of his bag when a dark car pulls up very, _very_ close to him. The back window rolls down and Harry’s face appears. 

Behind him he can make out two other shapes. 

_Fuck_ , Louis thinks, he’s literally going on a date with _all_ of One Direction. He _definitely_ should have asked to be paid for this. 

Or, actually, he thinks with a self-deprecating chuckle, maybe _he_ should have paid for it. God knows his sisters would have and thousands of other eager fans all over the UK. 

Harry’s grinning at him, dimples deep, and Louis can’t help but relax a little. He puts his hands on his waist, willing forward a confidence he isn’t exactly feeling. “Hello.” 

“Heyyy!” Harry says, voice practically a shout, easily heard over the busy street traffic buzzing in the background. His eyes travel up and down Louis’ body appreciatively, and, for a moment, Louis forgets how weird this all is. The air is sucked out of his lungs and he imagines demanding that they skip the concert and head to Harry’s place immediately. 

Harry’s cheeks are pink, but not as pink as his lips and his hair is just on the wrong side of frizzy from the heat and he looks _so happy_ to see Louis. 

Louis thinks of their ‘goodbye’ just a few days back, the sweet, too sweet kiss, that Louis pressed to his lips, the way Harry’d practically whined as he insisted that Louis take his number, and the promise he’d made that he’d make plans to see Louis again _soon_. 

This arrangement, still so new, is, perhaps,already _way_ out of hand. 

Still, Louis smiles back, wide and easy. He can’t help it. Harry’s so charming, so wonderful. They spend another moment like that, just looking at each other and grinning. Louis thinks Harry might be contemplating skipping out on the concert, as well. 

Another face pops up beside Harry’s, close, so close their cheeks brush. “Hello, _Louis_.” 

Louis lifts an eyebrow. “Hello, Niall.” He means for it to come off a little superior- no need for these boys to _know_ he’s just the slightest bit intimidated by them.

Seeing as he’s now a luxury hooker, maybe they should be intimidated by him. 

Niall laughs, easy and light, and Louis resists the urge to pull at his shirt. So, no success on the intimidation front, then. 

Niall sticks an arm over Harry and motions Louis forward. “Get in, mate. We’re already late!” 

The door opens and Harry almost falls out. He’d been leaning on it, clearly. Niall’s fallen back against the seat, overcome with laughter. The person beside him is laughing, too. _Liam_. 

Louis’ pretty sure it’s not legal to squeeze all four of them into the back seat, but he’s not too worried about it. The windows are tinted and this way he has an excuse to perch himself on Harry’s lap. 

Louis catches a glimpse of Zayn’s profile in the front seat and has to look away. He’s even cooler and more beautiful than Louis’ had anticipated. His hair looks _perfect_ and Louis tries to stave off the little sizzle of jealousy that ripples through him as he brings a hand up to check his own, too-floppy attempt at a quiff. 

“Gentleman,” Louis intones. Four sets of eyes lock onto him, which is exactly what he wanted, but now that he has their attention, he’s not sure what to say. He considers introducing himself. 

_Hi, I’m Louis, Harry’s …. Rentboy? Camboy? High-end hooker?_ No label seems adequate and Louis blinks when his subconscious adds, _friend and boyfriend,_ to the list. 

He can’t say any of this though. His contract doesn’t permit it. On top of which, he doesn’t even know if the others know that Harry likes boys. 

“Yes,” Harry prompts. He’s got a hand tucked around Louis’ hip and his thumb wanders beneath the fabric of Louis’ shirt. 

Louis clears his throat and sticks out his chin. “A group trip to a ‘Take That’ concert? Isn’t this a bit gay?” 

Niall giggles up _roar_ iously, his body spilling over into Harry and Louis’ space as he shakes. Liam doesn’t look amused. 

“Being in a boyband or, like, liking a boyband doesn’t make you _gay,_ ” Liam insists, meeting Louis’ eyes. 

Liam’s eyes are hard and his jaw set and his comment seems to further Niall’s amusement. Louis wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Niall actually falls off his seat, rolling onto the floor of the backseat of the car. 

From the front seat, Zayn says, softly, so softly that the boys almost miss it, “Taking it up the arse from Harry, mate, isn’t _that_ a bit gay?” 

“We haven’t-” Harry begins, at the same time as Louis says, “Touche, mate, touche.” 

Louis leers a little bit at the other boys. He’s glad they know that he and Harry are, like, sexual partners. He wonders if they know he’s being paid. 

~

Louis’ never been to see a concert at Wembley before. The place is _huge,_ but they’ve got themselves VIP tickets, a special box to watch from, and backstage passes. 

Niall’s practically vibrating with excitement. No one else’s cheeks are quite as pink, but Louis can see eagerness in Liam’s gait and delight in Harry’s wide grin. Even Zayn’s smooth front cracks when he’s handed a backstage pass and he lets slip an awed, _sick._

They’re clearly thrilled to be able to engage with a group that’s been successful at exactly what they’re trying to do. 

Louis’ a bit uncomfortable, mostly because none of the other boys have brought guests. No girlfriends, no family, just the four of them. And Louis. 

“I begged,” Harry whispers, into his ear as they’re ushered by a security guard to their seats. Harry’s pressed himself close to Louis, perhaps a little too close for their PR people’s taste. “I knew otherwise I wouldn’t see you before we left again. And I really wanted to see you. Three weeks apart felt like too long.” 

Harry’s words are soft, but his tone is thick with emotion. Echoing words well up in the back of Louis’ throat. _Two weeks is too long_ and _thank you_ and _you’re brilliant_. They aren’t professional sentiments and Louis stifles them. 

“We could have met up after the show,” Louis suggests. That would’ve made more sense. He feels like there are cameras and people _everywhere_ watching them. 

Harry leans back in, mouth hot on Louis’ ear, “You wanted to come to the concert, right? And I wanted you to meet the boys, like to see what we do and stuff. I thought you all might like each other.” 

Harry twists around to look at Louis, eyes wide, and Louis wants to kiss him. He doesn’t know about the other boys, can’t fathom what they’d have in common, but he likes Harry. He _really_ likes Harry. And if Harry wants him to make friends with his bandmates, Louis’ eager to try. 

And it’s not like trying will be a great hardship to him; they are _One Direction_ , after all. 

Niall knows every word to every song. Harry tries to keep up with him, singing along more often than not, though on several occasions he belts a garble of non-sensical and not-even-close-to-correct lyrics. 

Zayn’s got his phone out and at first Louis thinks he’s texting or playing a game- too cool for school, apparently. But when he chances a glance over he sees that he’s been taking, editing, and posting photographs of the show. 

At one point, Liam tries to lead the rest of them in a choreographed dance. They’re a mess- all of them, including Liam himself- and it’s a good thing Louis’ there to straighten them and provide much needed coaching. 

He realizes their lack of choreography has less to do with hipster branding and more to do with poor coordination and a certain deafness to rhythm. 

Harry’s at once the most enthusiastic and the worst of the lot. He shouldn’t be surprised; the X Factor had featured several interviews in which the boys talked about how they didn’t know if they’d be able to make it big because they were all terrible failures at dancing. 

Louis’d just assumed that’d been part of the act. To make it so far as a pop act, the boys surely had to be able to pull off some basic moves. 

But Harry’s truly _awful_. He almost trips over his own feet three times in the same song and his arms flail wildly, and not always in the direction he’s aiming. But what he lacks in talent, he more than makes up for in cheese and charm. 

It takes three songs of giggly hip thrusts and off-beat side-steps for Louis to realize that Harry’s movements aren’t as haphazard as they seem. He’s danced himself fully into Louis’ space, moving closer and closer until during one of the final ballads, he’s pressed fully back to front against Louis.

Louis tries to concentrate on the song- it’s always been one of his favorites- but instead he’s distracted by the gentle friction of Harry’s soft bum against his half-hard cock. 

Louis checks the other boys reactions. Yeah, he knows they _know_ , but he’s not sure how they _feel_ about it. Liam and Zayn seem to be trying to ignore them, gazes focused intently on the stage, but Niall looks pleased and when he catches Louis’ eyes, he sends him an enthusiastic thumbs up. 

Their handlers are another story. Louis has the distinct feeling that they did not expect Louis to be here and he’s pretty sure Harry will get told off for this later. He’s a little surprised that they didn’t kick him out as soon as they discovered who he was. 

Towards the end of the show, Take That gives this awkward little speech thanking their fans for sticking with them for twenty years. 

_Twenty years._

The next thought drops in Louis’ mind like heavy stone. The whole ordeal holds an echo of sadness- not unlike the feeling of Boxing Day, when all the presents have been opened and the best of the food consumed. The best of things has passed. 

He watches Harry’s expression twist and Liam’s jaw set. He wonders if they’re already imagining the end of their own career, playing out the script of their own nostalgic reunion tour for stadiums filled up with wine moms and reluctantly supportive husbands. 

~

Louis decides to use the loo while they wait for the encore. It’s a private toilet, right in the suite and there isn’t a line. 

He’s catches sight of himself in the mirror. His cheeks are tinged pink and a smile pulls up the corners of his mouth, a smile he hadn’t realized he was wearing. He’s having fun. 

The fear that’d settled in his belly when Niall’s face had appeared next to Harry’s in the window of their car has completely disappeared. Harry said he wanted Louis to come along to the concert because he thought he’d get along with the band, that they’d like each other, and he was right. 

He’s laughed nearly as much as he would on a night with his own friends. And, of course, a night with his own friends wouldn’t include the smell of Harry’s cologne or the sweet smiles he’s been shooting Louis during the sappiest parts of the sappiest songs. 

He can’t help but think that the night’s looking good on him. He hopes Harry thinks so, too. 

Someone bangs on the door and Louis reaches over to give the toilet a second flush, pretend that he’s just finished, that he hasn’t been in here for ages, just gazing at his reflection. 

When he opens the door, it’s Liam and he pushes Louis back inside the tiny room. His touch is gentle, but his face is stony, expression, unreadable. 

Louis’ stomach tightens and his mood sours.

Liam’s standing so close that Louis can count the hairs in his eyebrows and feel his breath against his own cheek. _Oh god_. 

“I’m not, like, I’m here for Harry, not you,” he tells Liam, proud that his voice sounds firm, if a little shrill. 

“Obviously.” Liam shakes his head and folds his arms across his chest. The motion puts a little space between them and Louis relaxes. “I mean, you’re _his boyfriend_.” 

Louis freezes. “He told you I’m his boyfriend?” 

Liam tilts his head. “You aren’t his boyfriend?” 

Louis’ at a loss. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do. He’s not sure if Harry’s been telling people that they’re in a relationship, or if Liam’s just guessing. What would Harry want him to say? What does his contract allow him to say? 

He settles on, “It’s pretty early on. We’ve only seen each other twice.” 

Liam’s eyes narrow as if he’s searching Louis for something. Louis doesn’t like it. For the first time that evening, he feels like _less_. Like he’s been judged and found wanting. Like he doesn’t belong here with Harry. Like he won’t ever belong here with Harry. 

“Well,” Louis says, moving forward. “Glad we had this chat.” He tries to make his way around Liam, but Liam sidesteps, cutting him off. 

“I just don’t want Harry to get distracted. Or hurt. You’re, like, a lot more experienced and older than he is.” 

The irony of the statement- the idea that Louis’ somehow the person with the power in the situation when Harry and his lawyers could literally sue Louis through to the next century- is the spark that lights a fire Louis’ gut.

 _Who the fuck does this kid think that he is?_

Liam’s jaw is set and Louis’ fist itches to punch it. He doesn’t. But he’s less successful at holding back his tongue. 

“Great, thank you. I’m sure Harold will be very glad to know you’re cornering his date in the toilet to threaten him because you don’t think Harry’s clever or strong enough to handle himself. What a good friend you are, Liam Payne.” 

Liam’s jaw drops and he steps out of the way. 

To Louis’ back, he says, “I’m just worried about him. I’m trying to be a good friend.” 

Louis doesn’t turn around to say, “Good friends say shit to each other’s faces. You’re just being a dick.”

He slams the door with a vindictive satisfaction. 

Liam doesn’t say another word to him for the rest of the evening. 

~

They’re backstage with Take That and cameras and paps are _everywhere_. The press people are all cooing over how cute it is to see multiple generations of boybands all in the same room. They’re shouting out questions about advice and possible collaborations. 

When Harry had told him they were being invited backstage, Louis had imagined a private little chat, maybe a shared joint and some laughs. Perhaps Louis would be able to convince both bands to autograph his arse, one band for each cheek. 

But that’s not what happens. This is apparently for _publicity,_ part of building One Direction’s image and it’s wild. Louis’ sticks close to Harry, more than a little overwhelmed by the crowd. 

A couple minutes in, though, he’s pulled away by a security guard. They bring him to a cluster of older adults, some of whom are in suits, nearby. The one nearest him with a clipboard says, “Sorry, kid, but you’re not in the band.” 

“I’m not, no.” He sticks out a hand. “I’m Louis Tomlinson, friend of Harry’s nice to meet you.” 

The guy smirks. “I know who you are, Louis..” 

Another of the people, a woman who’s wearing a Take That t-shirt, says, “I’m surprised he was allowed to bring his boyfriend with him.” 

“Not his boyfriend,” Louis says, immediately regrets it, thinking back to his conversation with Liam. 

Maybe he shouldn’t be so forceful on that point. He hasn’t had a chance to ask Harry what he’s been telling people. But, the thing is, he’s not Harry’s boyfriend. He’s definitely being paid for all this. And as much as he’d like it to be true, his stomach squirms at the false assumptions. 

The woman smirks at him. “Does he know that?” She nods to where Harry is looking over Zayn’s shoulder, staring Louis down. He’s pouting and pulling at his bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger. 

He doesn’t look happy that Louis’ been pulled away from him. Louis’ not happy about it either. 

Gradually, Harry floats over to where Louis is standing. He introduces himself to several of the suits. His smile is easy and wide and the previously irritated staff people are charmed, their own frowns sliding away. 

Despite the fact that Harry’s come to stand beside him, he feels as though the actual distance between them has widened. 

Harry is a born star and, even though he’d been able to fool himself into a false sense of security with the band, Louis does not belong here. 

Before long, they’re ushered out pretty quickly to VIP car park. Several different cars await them. 

It’s odd, Louis thinks, the way they seem to be shuffled from place to place without any sort of input and discussion. 

As he and Harry are moved almost bodily toward their vehicle, a group of fans approaches. Four or five girls and one boys. Each one of them looks carefully put together, make-up perfect and not a hair out of place, despite the fact that they appear to be leaving the concert. Actually, the closer they come, the odder it seems. 

Louis’d been pretty sure that they’d been the youngest people in the building, aside from the small children he’d seen a couple of mums drag along. These _kids_ are definitely as young as they are. Younger even. 

They head straight for Harry. 

The security guard makes eye contact with Harry, but he shrugs and smiles. The crew of kids is laughing and (maybe) crying as they surround Harry, cutting Louis out. They all have something for him to sign. 

They ask him about the concert and about whether he has a girlfriend and about where the band is going next. Harry answers their questions with a smile and a few ‘hello’s. 

He takes the photos and CD cases from their hands without asking, produces a marker from thin air, and begins to sign his name to things. The chatter continues around him and he manages to participate without giving anything away. 

One of the girls, one who’s veryconcerned about Harry’s love life, repeats her question several times over, clearly unhappy with Harry’s non-responses. Eventually, she presses for a picture with Harry who agrees, albeit a little stiffly. But when her friend pulls out her phone, the girl moves in a little too close for comfort. She wraps her arms tightly around Harry’s waist and presses what looks to be an openmouthed kiss to cheek. 

Louis steps in front of the camera. “All right,” he says. “We have places to be.” 

Harry meets his eyes, shoulders relaxing and mouth turning up. 

The girl focuses her attention onto Louis. He thinks she might be the first of the bunch to really notice him. “Who are you? Are you friends? You want to be in the picture?” 

Louis hesitates. He should say no, but a selfish, vain part of him imagines the internet splashed with photos of Harry pressed to his side. Before he has a chance to answer, the driver of their car opens his door and calls, “That’s enough. The boys are heading home now.” 

Harry apologizes profusely, handing back various items, even as they try to push more at him. Louis presses a hand to his back and says quietly, “It’s alright; come on, now.” 

With one last wave, Harry allows himself to be ushered into the backseat of the waiting vehicle, cameras flashing at their back. 

Once inside, Harry links their fingers together and gazes at Louis thoughtfully. 

After a long quiet moment, Louis says, “Well.. that was…” 

Harry interrupts. “Did you like my friends? Was it alright to spend the evening with them? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you beforehand. I hope you had fun. I really thought you and Zayn would hit it off. I know you both really enjoy the same films. Liam, too, actually. Last week they were trying to-” 

Louis nods and kisses him. “I had fun,” he says and it’s true. 

“I liked your friends,” he adds, and this is true, too. 

He doesn’t mention the strangeness of what happened after- the encounter with Liam in the toilet, the strange conversation he’d had with Harry’s handlers, the way he’d been on the outside of an invisible buttle when Harry’d been interacting with Take That and then his fans. 

He doesn’t want to put any of that on Harry. He’s paid to please Harry, not complain to him. And anyway, he doesn’t have any claim on Harry; he doesn’t fit into these parts of Harry’s life- the friends, the fame, the fans- because he’s not supposed. 

Harry reaches up and touches his cheek. “They shouldn’t have split us up backstage. I’m going to tell them not to do that next time.” 

_Next time_ , as though Louis will have many more opportunities to spend time with Harry and his famous friends. He tries not to let his bitter disbelief creep onto his face. He fails. 

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks. 

Louis doesn’t want to answer. He can’t. So he kisses Harry and keeps kissing him until the car rolls to a stop outside his home. 

Harry links their fingers as they walk up the steps to his door. He punches in a code and the door buzzes open. 

The air sizzles between them. What had begun as a gentle distraction technique had built into something more heated as Louis’ teeth bit at Harry’s lips and Harry’s fingers had slid under Louis’ shirt to scratch at Louis’ back. 

As Harry fumbles with his lock, Louis imagines peeling off his shirt, unbuttoning his trousers, and stripping down his underwear. He wants Harry naked. 

Harry’s flat is cozier than Louis expects. It’s large, yeah, nearly as large as his mum’s home: three bedrooms, two full bathrooms and guest toilet, a music room, a _huge_ kitchen and a spacious living area. 

But it’s not _posh_ , not in the way Louis expected. For one, instead of sleek chrome and abstract art, or polished wood and watercolor flowers, the cream-colored walls are covered in photographs of people, family, friends, the band. For another, it’s a little messy. Granted, the place is neater than Louis would’ve kept it, but Harry’s shoes are in a pile by the door and he has stacks of papers on his dining room table and dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. 

Harry winces, looking around and flicking on lights. “Cleaning lady was supposed to come,” he explains. “I’ll have to see…” 

Louis doesn’t let him finish. He leans in for a kiss. He means it to be sweet and reassuring, a little ‘thank you’ for being invited into this more intimate part of Harry’s life, but Harry deepens it quickly, backing Louis up against the door of his hall closet. 

Harry’s erection presses into his thigh and he wonders whether Harry’s been aroused since their car ride to the stadium, whether he’s spent the entire night futilely willing away a boner. 

“Hey, babe,” he murmurs against Harry’s jaw. “Want to show me your bedroom?” 

Harry lets out a small noise and shakes his head, curls brushing Louis’ cheek. He doesn’t step away, though, and Louis frowns. He’s sure he’d read this right. Harry’s clearly aroused, eyes closed, gasping for breath. 

Louis arches into Harry, wanting him to know that Louis is hard up for as he is. “Come on, then.” 

Harry shakes his head again and this time manages a soft, “No.” 

Louis draws a shaky breath. “Then what-” 

But then Harry’s hands are at Louis’ fly and his trousers are being pulled roughly down his hips. Harry puts his mouth to Louis’ ear. “I want you right here.” 

Louis’ head falls back against the closet door with a thud. City light streams in from a large window in the next room and the doorknob presses cold against his hip. 

“Okay,” Louis agrees. 

Harry fumbles a bit as he tries to worm the material down over the thick of Louis’ legs, and, after a moment, he gives up. His hands come to settle on Louis ass, cupping the flesh firmly and tugging Louis close against him. It stings a bit, the friction of the fabric of Harry’s own trousers against his sensitive cock and thighs, and Louis wriggles loose. 

The noise Harry makes is incredibly displeased and it unhinges something inside Louis, but he stays firm to his goal. Harry’s trousers need to come off as well. 

He finds that it’s not difficult to get them off. They’re baggy to begin with, much baggier to than Louis’ own, and they’d been riding low, sitting at the top of Harry’s tiny ass. The belt Harry’s been using to hold them up is a farce and they fall all the way to Harry’s knees with one sharp tug. 

Harry’s wearing a pair of boxers underneath them, striped and soft, and, under normal circumstances, Louis’ would want them off as well, but Harry’s cock is already poking out of the front hole and Louis really can’t be bothered beyond that. 

Louis reaches between them and takes both their cocks in hand. At the touch, Harry relaxes against Louis’ body, his hands sliding from Louis’ ass to his sides. Louis nuzzles Harry’s throat, breathing in the smell of sweat and cologne, and murmurs, “Yeah, you like this?” 

Harry nods, a small hint of stubble scratching against Louis’ cheek. “Yeah.” His voice is deep and rough. Louis wants a recording of it well-fucked like this so he could play it for himself on lonely nights. If he had this before his shows, he’d never have any trouble getting hard. 

When he’d first met with Linda and signed that stack of papers, he’d anticipated that _if_ he agreed to continue, sex with his client would be work. He knew lots of tricks and techniques for getting hard when he wasn’t feeling it. He hasn’t had to use any of them, of course. Instead, he’s having to dig back into his memory, dig up the images of his nan and his mean, old geography teacher he used to use to quell erections in school. 

He wants to attend to Harry’s pleasure first, of course, but the feel of Harry’s cock against his own, the sound of Harry’s panting breaths in his ear- it’s too much. 

He comes first, with a groan and a _sorry,_ and collapses against the wall, muscles turning to jelly.

Harry’s hand snakes between their bodies and around Louis’ fist.

“So close,” Harry says. 

And he must be because it doesn’t take but three more pulls- three pulls that burn Louis’ sensitive skin- and he’s coming, too. 

They’re standing in beside the sink, passing loo roll between them to clean up, when Harry says, “I was hoping…” 

He doesn’t finish the thought, seemingly distracted by the movement of Louis’ hand on his cock. Louis feels himself flush with the strangeness of a hot gaze sizing him up when he’s soft like this. 

“What were you hoping?” Louis prompts. 

Harry buries his face in Louis’ shoulder. He says something Louis can’t quite make out. He thinks he knows, but he wants to be sure. 

“Again, without the mumble.” 

Harry meets Louis’ eyes in the mirror. “Maybe you could finger me?” 

Louis lets out a breath. He’s thought about it, imagined how he’d do it, even. But the soft rumble of Harry’s words actually asking for it, course through him with a force catches him off guard. 

Louis nods, not trusting his voice. 

They arrange themselves on Harry’s bed. Louis notices that it’s unmade, but that the sheets still smell like laundry soap, freshly washed. 

Harry lays on his front, chin resting on his pillow, ass pointed in Louis’ direction. Over his shoulder he shoots a coy, “Is this how you want me?” 

Louis nods. He looks down to examine the bottle of lube that Harry’d handed him in the bathroom. He opens the cap carefully, stalling. He’s done this before, of course, but there’s something particularly intimate about Harry’s request- a softness, a trust. Louis doesn’t want to fuck it up. 

He measures a drop of lube onto his finger and swallows. When he glances back at Harry, Harry’s watching him. 

“Do you want me to…?” He reaches around to pull apart his cheeks with his hands, smashing his face awkwardly into bedding. 

Louis shakes his head. He can’t seem to find his words. He’s supposed to be in charge, leading, directing, teaching. That’s what Harry pays him for. (Not he knows whether or not Harry’s paying him for tonight.) 

“No.” The word sounds rough, a little shaky. “I’ll take care of you.” 

Harry hums. 

Louis slides a finger down his crack and dances it around Harry’s hole, which clenches prettily in response. 

“Have you ever done this to yourself?” Louis asks. 

“Yeah,” Harry says. “When you told me to. In your video.” 

Louis lets loose a raw, embarrassing noise. He can see it: Harry in his room intent on Louis’ face on his laptop, eagerly following his instructions to open himself up. 

“Good,” he says. “How did it feel?” 

His finger is still dancing around the outside of Harry’s hole, not quite pressing in. 

“Good,” Harry echoes. “I want…” Louis finally presses the tip inside him. “ _More_.” 

Louis wants more, too. He slides in his finger to its hilt and Harry groans. 

Louis glances over Harry, the sweaty curl plastered to his forehead, his right hand fisted in the sheet, his thighs spattered in hair, his toes flexed tight. He’s so beautiful and Louis suddenly feels overwhelmed with his own luck. 

He can’t believe he’s here, with Harry, doing this. 

“May I have another?” Harry asks. 

The question confuses Louis for a moment and he twists his finger to buy time. Harry shouts and squirms. 

He wants another finger, Louis realizes. Louis pulls the first out and slicks up a second. “Of course, you may.” 

The moment they breach the ring of muscles, Harry whimpers. Louis watches him carefully. He doesn’t want to hurt him. He wants this to be everything he’s dreamed of and _more_. Louis still isn’t sure why Harry’s paying for sex, why he doesn’t have some rich and famous boyfriend sitting here in Louis’ stead, but he’s not going to abuse his position or take it for granted. 

He begins to work his two fingers is deep, twisting strokes. He can easily imagine that it’s his cock thrusting inside instead. 

“Someday,” he says. “I’m going to fuck you.” 

“Yes,” Harry says.

“My dick is thicker than these fingers, longer, too. And it would look so lovely inside you, feel even better.” 

“Yeah.” This word is breathier than his last and his hips are beginning to buck back against Louis’ fingers. Louis own cock throbs as he wonders if Harry might come with Louis inside him, untouched. 

“You’re so tight, so hot, so good for me.” 

Louis wants to touch himself, but manages to refrain. Harry does not. No, Harry groans, body twisting as he reaches down to tug on his cock, not quite matching Louis’ strokes. He comes, shaking, with a final twist of Louis’ fingers. 

Louis doesn’t pull out, but leaves his fingers still inside him, as he brings himself quickly to his own release. 

He scoots up the bed. He should clean them up, he knows. But he wants to kiss Harry first. 

When their faces are at a level, lips inches apart, Harry says, “Louis, you’re amazing.” 

Harry’s eyes are full of something- affection, Louis wants to think- and when their lips meet, the bite of Harry’s kiss feels possessive. 

The buzz of Harry’s phone pulls them out of the moment. 

Harry rolls over to glance at it. “I won’t answer it if-” He stops and wipes his hand off. “I’ve got to take it.” But by the time he gets to the phone, it’s stopped ringing and Louis’ has started. 

Harry passes it to him, “It’s Linda.” 

FIngers sticky, Louis answers. “Hello?” 

“Where are you at? Are you really at Harry’s apartment? How did I not know about this? How did someone get _pictures_ of you two? You literally signed a contract saying that this would not happen, not any of it.” 

Oh, _fuck._

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a link to a vid from Take That's tour (which 1d attends in this fic) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WoaJspOH9RM (thank you again, sam!)
> 
> [tumblr post](http://juliusschmidt.tumblr.com/post/166649667865/need-your-grace-by-juliusschmidt-30k-m-larry)


End file.
